


The War for the Dawn

by FavorablePrint



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Incest, M/M, Other, Romance, Sex, Violence, Violins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavorablePrint/pseuds/FavorablePrint
Summary: The Wall has fallen and the Night King invades the realms of men on dragonback. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen hurtle toward their destinies as they travel to Winterfell while Sansa Stark prepares for the War for the Dawn.Set weeks after the end of Season 7, this homage to A Song of Ice and Fire by George Martin draws on information from the books but follows the continuity of the show.UPDATE 8/9/18: Welcome new readers. I've been slow to update this since April but I'll do better in the near future about updating more often. Please feel free to drop me a line in the comments and to provide feedback. I'm always happy to read what people have to say.





	1. White Harbor

The fog had lifted just enough for Jon to see beyond the ship’s prow as it plunged through the icy water toward White Harbor. He trusted Davos to navigate safely through the mists. As Jon travelled back home, Davos had exerted some of the most skillful sailing that Jon had the occasion to witness in his lifetime. Two nights ago, a robust storm had hit their ship. Jon feared that the ship would founder and that they would all die in the sea, leagues from anyplace they could call home.

Davos's calm had impressed Jon during the storm. The Onion Knight's commands were firm and certain as the seamen struggle to keep the ship afloat. Davos had helmed the ship through the entire storm without ever leaving the wheel; his doing so had given the crew and passengers confidence that they would be okay. Everyone aboard their ship survived, though they were sodden and many were covered in their own filth.

Jon drew his heavy fur cloak tighter around himself. He shuddered. Even while he was in the south at King’s Landing Jon had not felt warm. He had worn his full cloak and wool clothing while in the capital and never felt too hot. It seemed that his brief time below the surface of the frozen lake north of the Wall had penetrated his body so thoroughly that he nearly always felt a chill.

Jon smiled inwardly to himself as he thought back to the first time he had actually felt warm since nearly dying in the lake. It had been with her—Daenerys. Alone with her. Intertwined with her. _The blood of the dragon, of old Valyria_. _Fire and blood._

“We’ll make port soon, your grace,” Davos called. Jon turned to face him.

“Thank you, Davos,” Jon replied. “But remember I am not a king anymore. Best get used to it.” He turned back to look out over the sea and he could see faint lights in the distance intended to guide ships of all kind into White Harbor, the largest city in the North.

“Maybe. But I reckon she might have somethin’ to do with that in due time,” Davos muttered quietly to himself. It was no secret to anyone onboard where Jon lay his head at night, in whose company he spent the most time, or who made him clearly most at ease when discussing the coming war.

Davos smiled to himself. The climate in the North was bleak and dreary. Fog had beset them even since the storm had passed two nights prior. He knew that the weather was bad and that tensions were high. The North knew what was coming. It always knew for winter was always coming. And this time an army of dead men accompanied winter to destroy the living.

Yet, when Davos thought about Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen united, it gave him hope. If destiny played any part in the outcome of the war, he was confident that he had two major players with him on the ship who had been chosen by destiny. The fact that they were lovers only made their alliance all the more potent.

The visage of White Harbor, the Seat of House Manderly, slowly broke through the fog. Prominently situated on the eastern shore of the White Knife, White Harbor was the North’s most crucial and vital port. Harkening back to the First Men, who had constructed a rough fort atop the Seal Rock at the mouth of the harbor, it had been designed to facilitate the quick transport of goods in and out of the harbors’ docks while still providing a formidable defense. The houses lining the cobblestone streets were whitewashed and gave the city a clean sheen notwithstanding the persistent scent of salt and the sea.

Years ago, Jon’s father had instructed Lord Manderly to reinforce White Harbor’s defenses out of concern for a potential war with the Lannisters. Lord Manderly had assiduously followed Lord Eddard’s command. White Harbor was defended with catapults and trebuchets protected by stone bulwarks along the fringes of the harbor.

The flag ship of House Targaryen slowly passed by the Seal Rock. Several Manderly dromons flanked the Seal Rock and its ringfort to protect White Harbor from raiders or southron intruders. Jon wondered if they would let them pass without inspection. Their ship’s sails were emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen but the banners flying on the main mast were those of both Houses Targaryen and Stark—the banner of the King in the North. It had been decades since White Harbor had welcomed anyone under a Targaryen banner. Never before had the Targaryen banner flown alongside the banner of House Stark, though.

“Welcome back to the North, yer grace!”

“The King in the North!”

“Hail the White Wolf!”

Jon raised his right hand and acknowledged the men, his men, aboard the Manderly ships. He heard more shouts from the Manderly dromons as they sailed past the small flotilla. His raven must have arrived informing Lord Wyman how he would be returning to the North and the rough time frame of their arrival. If Lord Wyman had received his raven, then he had reason to believe that his sister, Sansa, had received the one intended for her as well.

As Davos guided the ship to the inner harbor, Jon made his way below deck. He had made his things ready to disembark as soon as they had the ship moored. He knew that time was of the essence and that they had to meet the Dothraki on the Kingsroad else serious trouble develop. He did not make for his room but instead headed for her quarters.

Stopping in front of her door, he hesitated. He always hesitated and had the same thoughts every time he came to her. _Damned fool._ This time, however, he hesitated less than he had before. He knocked.

“Yes,” came a voice from inside.

Jon opened the door, walked in, and closed it behind him. His eyes scanned the room and stopped when he saw her, the woman he had come to love, his queen: Daenerys Targaryen.

The room smelled slightly of cinnamon and the candles in their braziers lit the room remarkably well. It was warm here. Daenerys wore her white coat—the same coat she wore when she flew beyond the Wall to save him and his ranging party on the foolish mission to capture a wight. Images of her flying on dragon back, the dragons raining fire on the undead, risking her life to save his party—to save him—flashed through his mind.

 _So many sacrifices_ , he thought to himself. _Too many unnecessary risks._ _Too big of a loss._

In hindsight, the folly of the plan to capture a wight and take it back to King’s Landing to convince the Lannisters to cease hostilities with Daenerys could not have been more apparent. It had truly been an utter fool’s errand. There were many other options, options that Jon and others failed to recognize. He had acted out of haste and some dark motivation that had loomed ominously in the back of his mind since the Red Woman brought him back from the dead. Jon alone had not selected the course of action. It had been Tyrion Lannister’s suggestion originally that Daenerys approved. The whole affair had been brash, ill-thought, and an unmitigated disaster.

Daenerys glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve arrived then?” Daenerys finished gathering some items that Jon could not see.

“Aye,” Jon responded. “Davos is making way to the inner harbor’s docks.” He walked forward and looked around the room. It had been tidied and Jon could tell that Daenerys was also ready to get moving as quickly as possible. “Lord Wyman will meet us there with horses for the ride to Winterfell.”

“Good,” she replied, turning her attention to finishing the task of pulling on her black lambskin gloves.

“And Drogon? Rhaegal? Have they been sighted?” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” Jon said shaking his head. “They were not overhead as we sailed past the Seal Rock and into the harbor. I’ve not heard them either.” He had mentioned the two dragons in his ravens to both Lord Manderly and Sansa. He wanted the northerners informed that the beasts would be accompanying them and to prepare themselves.

_Prepare themselves for dragons? How in the bloody hell can they do that?_

Daenerys turned to face Jon. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight braid that would facilitate riding in the wind and snow of the North. Jon smiled at her involuntarily. He could not help but smile when he saw her. He was grateful to see her return his expression.

“Well…they are not far,” she said approaching him. She gently placed her left hand on his right arm, leaned in, and kissed him softly on the lips which he returned. She moved past him to the cabin door. Jon turned to follow her.

“How should we deal with Lord Manderly?” Jon asked.

She stopped and turned back to face Jon.

“Precisely as we discussed. I am the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon. I have come to fight for the North and the living. I have come to protect my people—our people. You, as King in the North, approached me and requested my aid. All the lords of the north know why you left Winterfell. You return successful in your endeavor. We are now allies, Houses Stark and Targaryen. We will stand as bastions against the dead. Lord Manderly will not be a problem.”

Daenerys turned, opened the door, and walked out of her cabin into the hall. Jon followed and they ascended the stairs to the main deck together.

Davos had just guided the craft into one of the larger slips of the inner harbor. Like most ports, White Harbor smelled strongly of fish, salt, and wind. Jon saw the lively activity of the docks. Several fishing ships were unloading their cargo onto wagons. He could see the fish mongers not far from off from the docks, ready to receive the seafood and to commence the hard work of gutting, boning, filleting, and preparing the seafood either for market, consumption, or storage.

Daenerys walked toward the bow of the ship where Tyrion, Jorah, and Missandei waited. All three of her retainers were dressed for the brutal weather that the North endured during winter. Heavy cloaks were pulled tight around their shoulders and necks. Missandei had her hood pulled up over her head and her right hand had pulled the lower half of the hood closed to ease her breathing.

 _No winters in Naath_ , Jon wondered to himself but he did not know.

Jon looked toward the dock and saw the Lord of the Merman’s Court himself, Wyman Manderly. Lord Wyman’s litter stood a few feet behind him as the large man stood leaning on a retainer to keep his balance.

In the months following his acclamation as King in the North Jon had come to rely on Lord Manderly as one of his closest advisors, along with Davos and Sansa, before he had returned to White Harbor. He had been the first northern lord to acclaim Jon king after having been shamed by the Lady of Bear Island into reflecting upon the Manderly oaths to House Stark. Lord Wyman had given Jon exceptionally wise counsel, at least in Jon’s view, with respect to how he should treat the Umbers and Karstarks.

“Smalljon and Harrion were traitors and oath breakers,” Manderly had counseled. “Their arrogance nearly brought their houses and the North to ruin. Greatjon loved your father and had nothing but respect for your brother. Show mercy to young Ned Umber and you’ll bring them back to the fold with gratitude. He will rule House Umber for years and will be a most dedicated bannerman as he ages. His great uncles, Mors and Hother, will guide him well. They’re both loyal to House Stark and always have been. Show them mercy and the Umbers will never break their loyalty to House Stark again.”

 _They’ll be the first to meet the dead_ , Jon had responded in his mind. _Assuming the dead breach the Wall._

“The Karstarks, blood traitors aye, need a whipping but you can use young Alys to your advantage. Make her a favorable marriage match and you will see House Stark secured on multiple fronts. Keep her close to House Stark and you’ll see strength for generations.”

Jon, Sansa, Davos, and Lord Wyman had also conferenced many times late at night regarding the disposition of the lands controlled by House Bolton. In Jon’s mind, Sansa held rights to the Bolton lands since there was no viable cadet line or male heir. Sansa was, as Lady Bolton, all that remained of House Bolton.

Jon had reached a decision but had not made any public declarations before he received Tyrion’s raven from Dragonstone. For now, the Dreadfort was being manned by a mixed force of freefolk and Hornwood men, captained by Larence Snow, bastard of the late Lord Halys Hornwood of House Hornwood. Larence was young but so was Jon when had been given his first command.

The men were busy gutting the Dreadfort and preparing it for its ultimate destruction after the war was over. Sansa wanted no part of the Dreadfort. The lands would be partitioned off to the houses loyal to House Stark. In doing so, Sansa’s prophecy to Ramsay Bolton that he and his house would be forgotten would find fulfillment. The Boltons had betrayed House Stark for the last time.

 _The most southern of the northern lords_ , Jon thought to himself about Manderly. He understood the game better than most. When Sansa had counselled him to be smarter than his father and brother he knew what she was getting at even though he claimed ignorance. Lord Wyman had been a good teacher in the few weeks they had spent strategizing in Winterfell’s council rooms.

The ship lurched to a halt as men worked to tie it down before lowering the bridge to the dock below. They had taken the berth closest to the Wolf’s Den, the giant prison fort of White Harbor. Its immense walls and daunting fortifications made Jon take a moment to truly appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into building the Wolf’s Den. Turning from his admiration of the architecture, Jon eyed Daenerys and contemplated what she was thinking. It was no longer theory for them. The dead were coming and they needed to press forward quickly so as to give themselves the best possible chance at survival.

The bridge from the ship to shore lowered and Jon saw the Manderly men secure it to the dock. He stepped forward to lead the entourage. Manderly’s men bowed as Jon approached.

“Your Grace,” Lord Manderly said addressing Jon with a quick bow of his head. “Welcome back to White Harbor and to the North.”

A chorus of “The King in the North!” echoed from behind Lord Wyman from his men.

The Lord of White Harbor motioned to a steward with his left hand to come forward. The man moved quickly bearing a plate of fish and bread.

“Thank you, Lord Manderly,” Jon responded, taking a piece of bread. The steward shuttled around the group with the plate and each of them took a morsel of the food. Another steward followed behind the first with cups and wine.

Jon extended his hand to Lord Manderly, who took it and shook vigorously. Behind him he could hear others shuffled around. He turned to them but before he could say anything Manderly let out an exclamation.

Daenerys stepped forward and took a small piece of fish.

“Hah! You weren’t lying when you said that a Targaryen accompanied you. I’d recognize that platinum hair and valyrian presence anywhere. Never thought I’d see it again after the Trident.” Lord Wyman let out a sharp laugh as if he were seeing some fantastical creature that existed only in Nan’s stories.

Missandei stepped slightly forward. “You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful queen of the---“

“Yes, yes. Titles, titles, titles,” Manderly interrupted. He gazed at Daenerys as if to appraise her. To Jon, she looked every bit a queen.

“Daenerys Targaryen indeed. If she’s here to destroy the dead, that’s good enough for me.”

Jon watched Daenerys intently. They had discussed during their journey how northerners had little love for pomp and circumstance, which was no surprise to Daenerys based on Jon’s introduction in the Dragonstone throne room. _This is Jon Snow…he’s king in the north._ That was it. No litany of titles. No orator. Just direct statements. Daenerys respected the philosophy but she was the heir to the Iron Throne and Queen in her own right.

“Lord Wyman Manderly, at your service, your Grace.” Manderly did his best to bow as a show of respect. It amounted to little more than a nod. “Welcome to White Harbor.”

“Thank you, my lord, for receiving us. We are grateful for your hospitality,” Daenerys responded. Jon could tell her voice was harder, more strongly accented, and her words more clipped than they had been since they had left Dragonstone. She had become the Dragon Queen once more.

Manderly scanned Daenerys’s retinue, eyes widening at the appearance of Qhono and her Dothraki guards. He exchanged brief pleasantries with Tyrion and Davos, though spoke more warmly with Davos than any other person standing on the snow frocked dock. However, when his eyes fell upon Ser Jorah, Lord Wyman’s face hardened and his booming, jovial tone evaporated.

“What are you doing here, Mormont?” he asked, coolness tinging the timbre of his voice.

“I serve the queen, Lord Manderly” Jorah retorted. “Where she goes I go also.”

“Shame his grace’s father did not catch you before you scurried off to Essos. Your niece is quite the she-bear. Don’t be thinking of asserting any rights to Bear Island. She won’t let you have it,” Manderly said shaking his fat hand at Jorah. “You certainly don’t deserve it.”

“Aye, that’s true. I don’t deserve it nor would I ask for Bear Island from her grace. As I said—I serve the queen.” Jorah shrugged and shook his head. “I need neither lands nor titles.”

“Well then,” Manderly started shivering slightly in the cold sea breeze, “we best get you through the city and on your way. We received your raven, your Grace, and we’ve prepared everything as requested. A small contingent of men from Winterfell arrived not long ago to accompany you and the Lady Targaryen to Winterfell. They’re waiting outside the north gate.”

Jon set his left hand on Longclaw’s pommel. He had tried to return the sword to Jorah during the foray beyond the Wall but the knight had refused. His response to Lord Wyman was exactly what Jon had come to expect from the hardened and guilt-ridden knight. Jon felt a strange sympathy for him.

Manderly’s men moved aside as their lord lumbered forward toward his litter. Several of the men grunted as they hefted their rotund liege up the causeway and into the city of White Harbor. Daenerys, Jon, and their retainers fell in behind Lord Wyman’s litter, walking at a ponderous pace through the city.

Not much had changed since Jon and Davos rode to White Harbor from Winterfell months ago to sail to Dragonstone. The city, the largest in the North, bustled with activity. However, Jon did notice that while the activity months ago was mercantile in nature the activity now seemed more martial. Windows were boarded, fresh forged braziers lined the streets and dotted the outer facades of the houses lining the streets.

He saw more torch sconces than he remembered. He could tell the newer ones from the older ones by their design. The sconces that had existed prior to his departure for Dragonstone had been crafted in either the design of tridents or mermaids. The newer ones were spartan—just wrought iron with no elegance or grace hearkening back to the sea. Function had overtaken form in White Harbor.

 _Fire kills wights_ , he thought to himself. Though fire had little impact on White Walkers, fire definitely stopped wights in their tracks. White Harbor had been preparing for the inevitable. As before when Lord Eddard had asked the Lord Wyman to prepare for war with the living, Lord Wyman had faithfully executed his king’s command to prepare for war with the dead.

Jon walk silently alongside Daenerys. He did not dare to even look at her lest his people see in the brief moment of connection something that made them doubt his commitment to the North. He should not have cared what the people thought, but he did.

Jon was their king and Daenerys a queen. A match between them and their houses was logical and made strategic sense even in the long-term. No one had broached the word marriage on their voyage. In his quiet moments, however, Jon wondered whether such a union could even be possible.

Jon did not know how the northerners would react to a marital union between Houses Stark and Targaryen. Since Aegon’s landing, House Targaryen primarily married within itself, occasionally branching out to other southern houses. A Stark had never been considered a proper marital match to the venerable Targaryen heirs. The North should, in Jon’s view, revel in such a match. Daenerys symbolized deep strength and ancient power while Jon symbolized a new order and represented the most ancient house in the North. She was the blood of the dragon but the north remembered.

 _The North remembers,_ he thought to himself. They remember losing their kingdom under Torrhen Stark. They remember Aerys slaughtering Lord Rickard and his heir. They remember Robb leaving the North to pursue a reckless strategy after his father had died. The North remembered the dragon prince absconding with Lyanna Stark, raping her, and leaving her to die.

Daenerys acted as the Queen and he needed to be the King in the North for the time being. Many people traversing the road would stop and gape at the sight of Lord Manderly being borne on a litter through the city followed by armed Dothraki, until then only a novelty accompanying myths and stories, and a silver haired valyrian whose beauty surpassed anything they had ever seen before. An occasional shout of “King in the North!” would come from the crowd and Jon would do his best to turn and acknowledge the declarations.

It took them nearly an hour to traverse the entire city, up and down the snow laden streets and hills. Jon was genuinely winded by the time their group exited the north gate that opened onto the road leading to the Kingsroad crossing on the White Knife. The road would lead them to Castle Cerwyn and then to Winterfell.

A small, temporary depot had been established just outside the city walls. Sure enough, Jon could see Stark banners flying at the depot and the men, judged solely by their attire, were definitely Stark men. He caught Davos’s eye and nodded quickly in their direction. Davos peeled off from the main group and headed over to the men.

“Your Graces, here we are. Fresh horses are stabled over there,” Lord Wyman uttered motioning to a makeshift stable to the west of their location, “and the food supplies to accompany you are packed and ready to be loaded on the asses over yonder. I am afraid that the snows are deep near Winterfell. These beasts are shod to handle the ice but you will need to change their shoes once you reach deeper snows.”

“I am also sending sealskins in response to your sister’s request, your Grace. The armorers of Winterfell are doing the gods’ work, lining all fresh forged armor with leather. Sealskin may be used for that purpose but also to waterproof boots, gloves, or whatever it is fastened to. T’will keep a man drier than any other kind of lining that can be bound to a breastplate,” Manderly commented.

Jon nodded his response. He did not know whether Lord Wyman was telling the truth but he had no reason to doubt him. Sansa, it appeared, had truly taken to his charge to rule the North in his name. Everything he saw and heard in White Harbor confirmed his belief that she was a competent administrator and ruler. Whatever they found the state of things to be in Winterfell when they arrived Jon was confident that it would be the best that it could have been given the circumstances.

“Thank you, Lord Wyman. We are grateful for your preparedness and efficiency.” Daenerys said. Lord Wyman smiled broadly at her.

“Of course, your Grace. It is my sacred duty to heed the words of Winterfell.” Lord Wyman then broke into a long monologue about the virtues of White Harbor’s goods and wares that he would be sending to Winterfell with them. Jon smiled and nodded, remembering what his father had taught him. Daenerys appeared to be thoroughly interested in what Lord Wyman was saying, though Jon knew better.

 _A Lord listens to his bannermen at all times_ , Eddard had told him. _They come to you in times of need and they must be able to trust you to hear them through whatever their concerns_.

It was last night, after a vigorous bout of lovemaking, that Jon and Daenerys had finally spoken about their fathers to each other. To her credit Daenerys did not bear any malice toward Eddard Stark for his role in the near ruin of her House, her exile, and the horrors she had been subjected to as an outcast. She lay most of the blame at her father’s feet.

 _My father…was an evil man,_ she had said when they first met in the Dragonstone throne room. It had been her father who had captured Brandon Stark and who summoned Lord Rickard to King’s Landing following her brother’s disappearance with Lyanna Stark, Jon’s aunt. Her father had executed both Rickard and Brandon Stark, followed by an incendiary call for Eddard’s execution. Though Rhaegar’s apparent carelessness with respect to Lyanna had sparked the embers of conflict, it had been Aerys’s execution of the Warden of the North, his heir, and a call for Eddard Stark’s head that brought those embers to full flame.

“Jon!”

Jon snapped out of his memory when he heard his name coming from the direction of where the Stark men had congregated. He turned his head toward the group and saw a small figure walking toward him dressed in a half-cloak and leathers. The person looked familiar but Jon could not make out the facial features. He instinctively started toward her.

“Jon!” the person yelled again breaking into a run. Jon squinted, cocked his head slightly, and then recognition hit. He could not believe his eyes. He strode forward a few paces, opened his arms, and embraced his sister.

“Arya…is it you? Is it really you?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s really me,” she said, stepping back from him and smiling.

“By the gods. When I heard you and Bran had returned to Winterfell I could not believe it. To see you here…standing here…it’s…well it’s more than I had hoped for.”

He stepped back to appraise his younger half-sister. She had grown and matured into a young woman. Her facial features were sharper than they had been when they parted years before, the youthful exuberance of mischief long gone. Arya’s dark hair was pulled back and wound in a tight bun, quite similar to how he wore his hair these days. Her cloak seemed more like a flourish than a practical one but Jon liked it. The sword he gave her before he left for the Wall hung at her hip and a fine, valyrian steel dagger was at her waist.

“I see you still have it,” he said pointing at Needle. “What did you call it again?”

“Needle,” Arya replied, smiling. “We’ve had a quite a journey together, Needle and I. In many ways, it brought me home.”

“Aye, I’m sure you’ve had a journey that I can’t possibly imagine,” Jon said, nodding. _Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle,_ he had told her before they went their separate ways. Jon had never allowed himself to even think for a moment that Winterfell would be the castle where they would reunite.

“Sansa sent you then?”

“Yes, to accompany you back to Winterfell. Everything here at the depot is coming with us. It’ll be quite the wagon train but the Manderlys are excellent at preparing goods for transport. I’ve never seen such efficiency, even in Braavos.”

His sister’s face darkened slightly at the mention of the Free City of Essos. Jon watched her closely but remained silent.

“Sansa didn’t want to send me…she wanted to send Lord Royce but I insisted. I wanted to see you, this dragon queen, and perhaps a dragon or two. Add them to my list of curiosities.”

Jon laughed slightly. He had always felt closest to Arya before he left for the Wall. They were both outcasts and so they had always been closest. Arya had a wilder disposition than any of her siblings and had always been more prone to get into mischief. Jon had been a sullen mope who lingered on the outside of the Stark family but Arya always tried to bridge that gap.

He looked back over his should toward Daenerys.

“Aye, well there she is then. The Dragon Queen,” Jon muttered nodding in Daenerys’s direction.

“Yes…there she is. Truly beautiful. I’ve never seen a full-blooded valyrian before. Striking.” Arya shifted her weight back and forth between her right and left feet. She stared at Daenerys.

“Those eyes. That face. Remarkable. . .no dragons though.” She sounded disappointed.

“Oh, they’ll be by soon enough. No doubt if their mother calls for them, they’ll come quickly.”

“So, you’ve seen them then?” she asked.

“Aye. And touched one. They are truly magnificent. . .,” he hesitated, “beasts.”

“Do they both have riders? Have you ridden one?”

“Daenerys rides the largest one, a huge black shadow named Drogon. The other dragon, Rhaegal, lacks a rider still,” Jon replied.

“Really? Interesting. I thought she had three dragons. At least that’s what I heard,” Arya responded, shuffling her feet but keeping her eyes fixed on Daenerys who continued to speak with Lord Wyman.

 _The third, Viserion, is dead because of me,_ Jon thought to himself. He hung his head slightly.

“There were three,” Jon responded, “but the Night King killed one beyond the Wall.”

“He did, huh?” Arya said in a detached, offhanded manner. “How’d he manage that?”

“I don’t know. One moment the dragon was raining fire down on the army of the dead and the next it was falling from the sky like a raging comet. We barely survived.” Jon shook his head. He wanted to shake the weight of guilt that he still felt on his shoulders for Viserion’s death. Guilt that he knew he might never be rid of during his lifetime.

They two of them began to leisurely walk together toward the Stark men who were milling about and finishing loading the supplies.

Jon exhaled sharply, looking at his sister.

“How is Sansa? It seems like she has everything under control.”

“The Lady of Winterfell,” Arya responded waving her hand in front of her. “It suits her, you know--ruling. She has an intuition for it and I daresay that she is savvier than I would have ever given her credit for.”

“I always thought she was empty headed and stupid,” Arya continued. “And she was…but that was before we left. Before father died. Before mother died. Before Robb. Before Joffrey. Before Ramsay. Sansa learned in the most unpleasant of circumstances and she survived—we have survived, our family. She’s perceptive, merciful, and even ruthless when necessary.”

“Ruthless, eh? I never thought of Sansa as ruthless,” Jon responded, somewhat surprised by Arya’s description of their sister. “But yes, we have survived only to face annihilation at the hands of the dead.”

“The dead have to get through the Wall first,” Arya responded. “The Night’s Watch stands ready. You’ve manned the castles nearest Eastwatch and the Umbers are dug in, fortified at Last Hearth with picketing camps set out to forewarn of attacks.”

“I just hope it’s enough to give us a chance.”

They stopped short of the wagon train. Jon looked back toward Daenerys who was still cordially engaged with Lord Wyman. The large man was waving his arms about pointing this way and that. Daenerys’s amethyst eyes met his grey ones for a brief moment. They shared a fleeting but knowing smile between them.

Their connection was broken at the sound of hooves stampeding out of White Harbor’s north gate. A rider burst forth heading straight for Lord Wyman. The rider pulled up and hastily dismounted. Jon could see that he held a small piece of parchment in his hand. The courier handed it to Lord Wyman who quickly reviewed its contents.

“Your Grace!” Lord Wyman boomed to Jon.

Jon walked quickly back to where Lord Wyman and Daenerys stood. Lord Wyman handed Jon the raven’s scroll. He scanned the scroll and then his heart sank.

“A raven from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. The Wall…it has been breached. The dead have crossed…and…,” he stopped and looked at Daenerys, whose face was shrouded with concern.

“And?” she asked.

Jon swallowed before speaking.

“The Night King. He has a dragon.”


	2. The Raven's Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives dark words from the Wall and seeks answers from her brother.

Sansa stood a solitary figure in Winterfell’s Great Hall, a piece of parchment clutched in her gloved right hand. The letter had come from the Wall; dark words couriered on dark wings. As she stood by the hall’s large window nearest the raised dais, she silently contemplated the scroll’s contents, her thoughts framed by the low crackling of the fire in the nearby fireplace. The hall’s candles and braziers were fully aflame, making shadows dance on the stone walls and floor around her.

Jon’s direwolf, Ghost, slept near the hearth. The white wolf’s large chest rose and fell with rhythmic ease. The beast’s presence comforted Sansa during the months since Jon left for Dragonstone. Sansa wisely kept Ghost close once Arya left for White Harbor with the intent of escorting Jon and the Dragon Queen to Winterfell. Sansa had even allowed the direwolf to sleep in her bedchamber during the cold winter nights. She simply felt safer with him nearby. Brienne was not present to protect her. She had not yet returned from the south. Sansa missed her loyal sword and shield; yet, Ghost had proven a worthy companion in Brienne’s absence.

Interacting more frequently with Ghost awoke something in Sansa that she had not felt since Lady’s death so many years before. Sansa could not think back on Lady’s death with anything but contempt for Cersei and Joffrey. She had never blamed her father for acting as the executioner but she had harbored vitriol for Arya. Time had worn away any memory of forgiving Arya for her role in Lady’s death, largely because it had been Sansa’s own lies backfiring on her. Sansa realized now, in hindsight, that Lady’s death had been a portent of her own future. It was to be a future full of injustices, degradations, and immoral violence.

Sansa inhaled deeply and slowly as she watched the snow fall. It was peaceful to see the world cloak itself in whiteness. The snow muffled the sounds of the courtyard where the machine of war had reached its apex. For the Lady of Winterfell, the snow allowed her to calm her mind and just breathe for a moment or two. Unfortunately, the snow had been unable to calm her with respect to the disturbing contents of the Night’s Watch scroll.

Turning on her heel, she walked out of the Great Hall toward a corridor that led to the spiral staircase up to Bran’s tower room. She had to see Bran; she had to know the truth.

Ghost raised his head, alert and concerned, when he heard her footfalls. His blood red eyes gazed at Sansa expectantly, waiting for the request for him to follow.

She stopped next the great wolf, bent down and reached out to stroke behind his ears. “Go back to sleep, Ghost. I am going to see Bran. I’ll be fine.”

Ghost rumbled a response, rested his head back on the floor, and resumed his slumber.

 _Perhaps the Wall has actually fallen,_ she contemplated as she walked down the narrow stone corridor. _Perhaps the dead cross by the thousands. We are not ready._

 _We are meat for the Night King’s army_. _Nothing more_.

Sansa needed Jon to arrive back at Winterfell. She did not understand strategy or how to really fight the dead. Her talents lay in administration, learned from her brief time at Tyrion Lannister’s side, as Littlefinger’s pupil, and acting as the Lady of Winterfell. Warfare was not her _forte_ but she had a quick mind and made effort to absorb notions of tactics and strategy the military advisors discussed with Jon. She remained, however, a martial novice.

Sansa had been relieved in small measure when Jon’s raven arrived with news that he had successfully persuaded Daenerys Targaryen and her forces to join the fight against the dead. She had promptly dispatched men to White Harbor, along with Arya, to rendezvous with Jon and accompany him home to Winterfell.

As she reached the bottom of the stairwell her thoughts turned to little Ned Umber. She had already sent a raven to him admonishing the young lord to carry out the tactics with respect to Last Hearth.

_Last Hearth—our first warning and ruled by a boy younger than Bran was when he fell from the First Keep._

Yet, the Umbers were not without strength. Ned Umber’s great-uncle, Mors Crowfood, had been imprisoned by the Smalljon when he seized control of House Umber by murdering his father. Mors had been tortured and maimed while a prisoner in the Last Hearth dungeons but when he and his brother, Hother, were freed by Jon, Mors swore a bitter oath of vengeance before a heart tree that only Jon’s calming influence had staunched.

 _Ned Umber may just be a boy_ , _but Mors is a wildling in a northern lord’s trappings_. _He will do what must needs be done._

Sansa hiked up the front of her dark blue dress as she started ascending the staircase to Bran’s room. She half-jogged up the stairs, the clap-tap of her hard-heeled boots reverberated up and down the stairwell.

She stopped at Bran’s doorway and brushed her long, auburn hair back before knocking firmly on the thick oak door. A voice from inside softly bid her enter.

Sansa slowly opened the door and her eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness of the room. Bran still laid in bed. The fire in the hearth had been reduced to embers and the room was filled with stuffiness that needed venting.

“Sansa?” Bran asked, pushing himself upright. “Is everything okay?”

“Good morning, Bran,” she responded, striding into the room

Sansa walked into Bran’s room and went straight for the windows. She pulled back the curtains and opened the interior shutters to let the natural light of morning flood in. She opened a window slightly to freshen the room’s air. Bran recoiled as he shook the last webs of his slumber.

“Sansa, what is it?” he asked.

“I received a raven this morning from the Wall. I need to know whether what it says is true.”

“And what does the message say?” Bran queried.

“You can read it if you like” She held the scroll out toward her brother who merely shook his head in declination.

“It says that the Wall has been breached; the wildings and men of the Night’s Watch have been put to flight. Well those who survived were put to flight, obviously,” she quipped. She paced slightly from the window back toward the doorway, her skirts brushing across the floor. Bran watched her intently.

“That’s not all it says, though, does it?”

“No. There is more. It claims that the Night King…well, it claims something that is not possible.”

“We are speaking of an Army of the Dead, White Walkers, and the Night King, Sansa. If I recall, a giant aided you and Jon in retaking Winterfell. A dire wolf rests in the Great Hall by the fireplace. Daenerys Targaryen brings dragons to our home. I am the three-eyed raven,” he detachedly observed. “There seems to be little remaining impossible in the world.”

Sansa considered her brother’s words for a moment before responding. “The scroll claims that the Night King used a dragon to breach the Wall at Eastwatch. If it is true then we are in graver peril than we had even thought.”

“It is true,” came Bran’s placid response.

“Are you sure? Have you seen it?” she asked.

“Last night, in my dream, I saw death consume the Wall from above. It wielded a magic deeper and more ancient than has been seen in Westeros since the Age of Heroes and the Long Night. The Wall’s wards and spells that were woven into its foundations were not enough to prevent their advance. Death has come. The Long Night threatens the realms of men once more.”

Sansa’s heart felt despondent. _We are not ready._

“If the Long Night is here once more, what do we do? We are not prepared,” Sansa bemoaned. She turned away from Bran and looked out one his tower windows to see the snowfall growing heavier.

“Can we ever truly be ready to fight creatures of myth and legend, Sansa?” Bran inquired. “We are not prepared; but, I am here. Jon lives. Daenerys Targaryen has returned dragons to the world. And others will join us before the end.”

Sansa scoffed at Bran's statement. “Jon lives? What about him? Is Jon truly something special that we should count in the measuring?”

“Jon is far more important to the outcome of this war than you know. Jon died and yet he lives, raised by a red priestess of Asshai. He persuaded Daenerys to fight the dead and postpone a second Targaryen conquest of Westeros. Jon has sent us caches of dragonglass, which has been forged into weapons. Jon fought the dead at Hardhome and slew a White Walker with Longclaw. Jon has rallied the realms of men to stand against the dead in the War for the Dawn. He is a prince…the prince who was promised.”

Sansa shook her head in disagreement, her red hair swaying past her shoulders.

“A prince who was promised? What are you talking about? Jon abdicated the northern crown to Daenerys. He’s no prince, no king—just the Warden of the North under Daenerys Targaryen.”

“No, Sansa. He is more than that,” Bran responded. He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes as he spoke “You sensed that when you saw him at Castle Black. You know the legend of the Last Hero, don’t you?”

“Of course. Old Nan would told me that story when I was little. But it is just a story, Bran. . . isn’t it?” Sansa turned around and looked at Bran. She clasped her hands together in front of her and her fingers fidgeted.

Bran did not respond to her question. He just sat there staring into the ether for a brief moment before returning to his senses.

“I have to speak with Jon when he arrives,” Bran replied. “He will be here soon.”

He shuddered briefly and pulled the fur blankets up over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold.

“You said that when you first arrived back at Winterfell with the Reed girl. Why Bran? Why do you need to speak with him?”

“I have to tell him who he really is.” Bran turned his head to look into the embers in the fireplace. “Please close that window, Sansa.”

Sansa reached over to the window and closed it.

“Who is he?” she asked as cautiously as possible. She had stopped trying to understand Bran as any normal person would try to understand any other person. Bran was not truly Bran anymore and each time she ventured to query him about something, a creeping and unknown fear appeared in the back of her mind.

“Father never spoke of Jon’s mother,” Bran began. “He rarely spoke of the family he lost. Those who asked father about Jon’s mother were promptly silenced and learned not to even whisper about it again. Father kept secrets—dangerous secrets—from those who loved and served him.”

“Not even Jon could get father to tell him anything about his mother. If anyone had a right to know the smallest details about her, her hair color, eye color, how tall she was, it would have been Jon. Yet, father declined to even speak about the woman. I always wondered why that was the case. Had you wondered, Sansa? Had you ever asked the questions to yourself?”

Sansa smirked slightly as she thought about Bran’s comment. He was right. She had always accounted for her father’s reticence to discuss Jon’s mother as respecting her mother, Lady Catelyn. She had thought that her father felt deep shame at fathering a bastard and that Lord Eddard’s honor was the core of his character.

“I wish that I had but I confess not,” she responded. She had not cared for Jon when they were children. She viewed him as a dark stain on the family’s honor and had treated him just like her mother had treated him—with disdain and contempt. Her treatment of Jon was among her greatest regrets.

“I did. And now I know the answer,” Bran said in low whisper.

The two did not speak for several long moments. Sansa’s mind went back to the day her father died in King’s Landing. She recalled seeing him limp through the riotous crowd toward the platform set before the Sept of Baelor. She saw him stumble and struggle to stand with dignity, the pain of his injured leg apparent to her. She could almost smell the perfume Cersei Lannister wore that day.

She could see the glint of the sun on Ice’s blade as Ilyn Payne raised and lowered the sword onto her father’s neck, shattering her world. Sansa had been so confident that her father would receive mercy from the king, but Joffrey had revealed his true, unhinged self during that moment. It was a bitter memory that pricked her heart.

Sansa slowly spoke her thoughts about her father aloud.

“Father valued honor but he also valued his family. He valued his family more than anything. The day he died…he confessed treason even though he was the crown’s most loyal subject. He sacrificed his honor to protect something upon which he placed greater value—me, his daughter.”

She looked up at Bran, her eyes glassy from tears welling up at the memory of her father’s death and the nightmares that followed. Bran smiled softly at her.

“You’re right, of course,” Bran responded. “Father loved his family and paid the ultimate price to protect one he loved. His choice of family over honor in King’s Landing was not the first time he made such a choice. He did so many years before for his sister Lyanna . . . and her son.”

Bran’s words hung for a moment as if suspended in mid-air in front of Sansa. Time seemed to dilate as she absorbed what he had said. Then, as if time leapt forward to catch up to itself, waves of clarity and emotion crashed over Sansa. Her mind raced through memories of her father interacting with Jon.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Eddard Stark in the courtyard teaching Jon to hold a sword and shield. She saw him guiding a gelding around a training pen with a young Jon on its back. She pictured Eddard teaching Jon about the great houses of Westeros, eschewing sole reliance on Maester Luwin for Jon’s education. Sansa also heard her mother’s voice agonizing over Jon’s presence at Winterfell and decrying Eddard’s open recognition of the boy.

_Leave the boy be, Cat. There shall no more debate or discussion about it. He is my blood and that is all that you ever need know._

Recognizing now, so many years later, why her father had been so devoted to Jon, at such great cost, made tears flow freely from Sansa’s eyes. Silence resumed, only broken by Sansa’s quiet sobs as she allowed herself to experience the breadth of her cascading emotions. She had always believed that her father embodied what it meant to be a good man. Now she knew it. Whatever Eddard Stark’s shortcomings had been, she could not doubt his goodness and charity. Finally, she gathered herself to speak.

“So,” Sansa whispered, wiping at her tear stained cheeks with the back of her gloved hands, “Jon is not Father’s son. He’s a noble Targaryen bastard like Daemon Blackfyre or Aegor Rivers. I assume that father protected Jon from Robert’s wrath because Robert swore vengeance against all Targaryens for what happened to Lyanna. He feared leaving any Targaryen alive else they threaten his reign. He could not forgive Lyanna’s kidnap and rape at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“The stories of Lyanna’s kidnapping and rape are false,” Bran responded without even a hint of emotion. “History is written by those who are victorious. I imagine that had Rhaegar defeated Robert Baratheon at the Trident that we would have heard quite a different telling of the star-crossed lovers’ story.”

Bran sat forward in his bed and looked intensely at Sansa.

“They loved each other, Sansa. It does not justify their recklessness or disregard for the lives of others but Rhaegar and Lyanna _did_ love each other. Rhaegar had the High Septon annul his marriage to Elia Martell, an exceptional act. I daresay it had never happened before. But the High Septon did Rhaegar’s bidding and then married Rhaegar to Lyanna in Dorne. Jon is a product of their love—not of rape. Rhaegar and Lyanna’s love destroyed them, the Targaryens, and countless lives. I saw it all.”

Sansa took in Bran’s words again. The revelations about her half-brother were overwhelming at every turn.

 _Of course_ , she thought. _Of course, it all made sense now. How could she not have seen? Why couldn’t she see it before?_

“You say that Rhaegar and Lyanna married before Jon was born. That would mean . . .”

“Yes,” Bran interrupted her. “Jon is a trueborn son of House Targaryen. He’s not a bastard. His given name from his mother was Aegon Targaryen.”

“Aegon Targaryen,” Sansa responded. The Conqueror’s name. A king’s name. She connected the dots in her mind—dots that she knew Bran had already connected.

“That means Jon is the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“He is an heir to a barren and deposed House governed by his aunt. An aunt that controls two dragons, an army of Unsullied, a Dothraki horde, and who has few Westerosi allies,” Bran remarked. “Robert Baratheon and his army shattered whatever was left of House Targaryen’s strength in Westeros at the Trident. House Lannister performed the killing blow when Jaime Lannister slew Aerys and Lord Tywin sacked King’s Landing. Daenerys will not give up control of House Targaryen just because Jon has an unverifiable claim revealed by a cripple who claims to see visions. Still, I must reveal the truth to him. Only then will he understand what he must do.”

Sansa’s head had started swimming. This conversation had not gone remotely how she thought it would when she ascended the stairs. She had come to Bran to decide how to proceed in light of the panicked message she received from the Night’s Watch. She now wrestled with knowledge that her bastard brother was not truly a bastard or her brother but the last living, trueborn male heir to House Targaryen.

Bran continued to speak.

“Jon or Daenerys’s claims, to the extent they have a claim at all, will rest solely on an ability to conquer and retake the Iron Throne by force. They will have to follow the path of Aegon the Conqueror three hundred years ago that united Westeros. I doubt Jon will be motivated to do such a thing but Daenerys had already embarked on that path. At the very least Jon has convinced her that her war for the throne doesn’t matter compared to the great war against the dead.”

Sansa nodded in agreement. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair, her mind still swimming as she reconciled the information she had just learned with what she had known beforehand.

“Jon has never wanted attention or praise,” she responded, bringing her left hand pensively to her chin. “He’s only ever wanted acceptance . . . to belong to a family, our family. He’s a true Stark even without the surname. He is the most like father in temperament and character. He’s loyal to the North and focused on defeating the dead. However, Daenerys will expect the North eventually to fight with her to take the Iron Throne from Cersei.”

Bran arched his eyebrow and looked expectantly at Sansa.

“Of course, she will,” Bran said, shifting around slightly in his bed. “Jon is her family and he has sworn fealty to her as his queen. Daenerys needs Westerosi allies to conquer and rule effectively once the throne is won,” Bran remarked. “Obtaining the North’s cooperation without violence is a significant victory for Daenerys. With the Tyrells gone and Dorne leaderless without the Princes of House Martell, Jon aligning the North with her may be the most significant thing she has yet to accomplish.”

Bran’s blue eyes narrowed. “We must come to terms with the fact that the world will be different if Daenerys comes into her throne. However, if I were her, there is no person I’d rather share power with than Jon.”

Sansa stood up quickly, straightened the folds of her dress and cloak, and walked swiftly to the door.

“Who else knows the truth about Jon?” she asked him before reaching out to touch the handle.

“I’ve told only Samwell Tarly and you. Though Meera’s father, Lord Howland, was at the Tower of Joy when Lyanna died and father took Jon. I am sure that he knows the truth.”

Sansa considered Bran’s words for a moment. She bowed her head and spoke.

“Tell no one else, Bran. Tell no one else until Jon arrives. I have to send a raven.” She turned to leave his room.

“Send a raven? To whom?”

Sansa half-turned to face her brother.

“To Howland Reed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this sort of retreads what is seen in The Dragon and the Wolf between Sam and Bran but Sansa learning about Jon's parentage even before Jon does is an important beat that needed its due. If she learned about Jon at the same time as Jon and Daenerys it would diminish the impact that it would have on her. I wanted to go right at it and explore how this more mature and experienced Sansa would react. Maybe I missed it tonally but I think she'd be profoundly moved by the revelation that her brother is not who everyone though he was.
> 
> I also retcon Bran's learning about the Wall falling a little bit. I had several paragraphs explaining why Bran's warging the ravens wouldn't have allowed him to see the ultimate outcome at the Wall but it just got cumbersome. So, I just retconned it and moved on. 
> 
> Anyway, more coming. Thanks for those who have given kudos and to those who commented. I'm grateful that anyone would actually read my fan fic.


	3. The Crossing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister, a lone rider, makes his way north to keep his promise to fight the dead.

Exhaustion and a sense of isolation had set in on Jaime Lannister. He had ridden hard out of King’s Landing a week prior, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the woman he loved and feared. At first his solitude had been welcome; never before had Jaime traveled alone. He had always been accompanied by family, servants, soldiers, or captors with him during his travels. Now, however, he was truly alone and the seeming permanence of his condition had settled in on him. He had abandoned everything he knew and loved. He had washed his hands of his queen, sister, and lover. True, his would, if he arrived at his destination, be in his brother’s presence once more but theirs was a strained relationship. Any kinship he felt toward Tyrion died when his father died in such an inglorious and unfit condition. His only companion on his journey now, other than his steed, was the melancholy of his own memory.

The southern Riverlands had turned from its former brilliant autumnal color to a harsh, barren deadness. The first snowfall only created mud and wetness. It had taken several snow storms to cover the land in a blanket of whiteness.

As Jaime rode, he recalled seeing snowflakes fall on his gloved hand as he left the capital just over a week prior. Given the Citadel’s missives, Jaime believed that this winter would be long and hard, especially for the smallfolk. Winter could be fickle and capricious, changing without warning. Its propensity for dramatic shifts worried him and it should have also worried all of the kingdom’s smallfolk. These fears drove Jaime onward with haste as he sought to get to the North as quickly as possible.

Jaime’s designs, to the extent he had any, were to avoid recognition at all costs. His initial route out of King’s Landing had been to travel west, following lesser-known parallel paths with the Gold Road, rather than to travel the more direct route up the Kingsroad. He intended to turn north once he forded the river running out of the God’s Eye and into the Blackwater and ride along the river and lake’s western shores past Harrenhal. He would then cross the Trident and take the Kingsroad on to Winterfell. He also knew that being waylaid by the queen’s men or brigands would be disastrous for him since he had no reinforcements or guards to come to his aid. There was a very real chance, he recognized, that he would never arrive at Winterfell. Even still, he had met with some measure of fortune: he had not seen any other travelers for three days.

The trappings of House Lannister no longer adorned his person; instead, Jaime wore simple, practical attire: a wool doublet and leather jerkin of the plainest, darkest brown he could find on such short notice prior to his flight from the capital. His valyrian sword lay wrapped  in burlap and fastened to his saddle’s cantle, nestled beneath his bedroll. The sword’s pommel and its blade’s distinct reddish-black swirls would have given him away to even the most casual passerby. Jaime chose a non-descript longsword to hang at his right hip. He would not use the valyrian steel sword unless absolutely necessary.

He wore a dark grey traveling cloak that he had drawn close about his body. The weather had started changing for the worse two days ago, the mud transmuting itself first into a slurry and then to hardened ice. Jaime fought constantly against the bitter winds cutting across the God’s Eye.

In other seasons, the forest west of the God’s Eye was a paradise, the jewel of the southern Riverlands. Deep, dramatic rock formations and shaded valleys wound their way together in perfect harmony. The region contained plentiful ponds whose placid water reflected the towering formations in the early morning hours. Thick forests grew along the countryside’s natural undulations creating a marvelous pastiche of foliage and brush. Ruins of small holdfasts littered the region. Since his first visit to the area while but a youth, Jaime had maintained his opinion that there were no more beautiful region in Westeros than the paradise of the Riverlands.

In his younger years Jaime had returned to the area many times for a variety of purposes. Some had been with family while others were for martial purposes. Regardless, at no point during those visits had Cersei or any of the military men ever taken a moment to observe or comment upon the remarkable beauty the region presented. Only Tyrion ever commented on the land’s uniqueness. It had occurred when Jaime, Cersei, and Tyrion were en route to the capital for some purpose that he no longer cared to recall. They had camped one night near a tall cliffside and  Jaime had arisen in the morning before dawn to train with a master-at-arms when he encountered Tyrion, his squat legs dangling over the side of a granite cliff and reading one of his many books.

 _Ah, brother, off to clang swords with Ser Jeramy this morning_ , Tyrion had asked without looking up from the book's pages. A low candle burned nearby. Jaime could not have guessed how long Tyrion had been there reading.

 _I am_ , Jaime replied, sitting down next to his brother.  _Why are you up this early? I thought you’d be asleep given how long you and that peasant girl were occupied last night?_

 _Mmmm, a pleasant evening_ ,  _and one that lasted well past the hour of the wolf,_ Tyrion muttered lowly, flipping a page _. The girl’s resting now, with a bag of gold dragons clutched to her breasts. And they were magnificent, brother. You should have seen them._

 _I have no interest in that sort of thing_ , Jaime responded, thinking of his time the night before with Cersei. He did have an interest in Cersei's breasts but lacked any interest in the breasts of other women.

 _Hah!_ Tyrion gave a muted laugh. He closed his book with a slap.  _Well, I could not sleep in this morning. I had to see the sun rise. Life is too short and to miss a sunrise, especially in the land where we currently find ourselves, would be a travesty that I would regret for an age._

The two of them sat there for a brief moment as the sun crested the hills in the distance, casting its rays over the lush, green forest.

 _Well_ , Jaime had stated almost dismissively,  _there it is. Now you’ve seen it._

Tyrion held up his hand to silence Jaime. They sat in silence for a brief moment before Tyrion spoke.

_A beautiful landscape bathed in a sunrise is like a woman’s tit. One must take time to let it appear in effulgent glory before passing any judgment._

Jaime had smirked at Tyrion’s metaphor but as the sun had risen past the horizon’s verge, casting resplendent light over the land, Jaime knew that his brother spoke truth.

 _This is a morning that will never come again_ , Tyrion had observed.  _And a day that we will have but once. Let us make the most of it, brother._

Jaime’s fond memory of that morning faded as a harsh blast of cold wind struck his face. He slumped forward on his stallion, named Glory, to shield himself from the cold. He had wrapped a wool scarf across the bottom half of his face but his eyes still watered from the bitterness of the chilled air. He steeled himself as the wind kept up its relentless assault.

The steady snowfall the past days had hindered Jaime’s progress north. Jaime attempted to account for the weather by merely staying ready to move whenever possible but the constant state of readiness had proved taxing. There had been times when heavy flurries reduced his visibility to nothing and when the accumulated snowpack made trails impassable on horseback. Jaime’s exhibited patience at first but it was wearing thin.

Jaime also feared pushing the beast too hard and feared it would lose its footing and suffered a mortal injury thanks to his hastiness. Yesterday the sky had cleared and allowed sunlight to light his path enough that he could see the faint outlines of the melted minarets of Harrenhal even though he was at least two leagues away from the wretched ruin. Jaime had not seen Harrenhal since he and Brienne had ridden south together for King’s Landing but still he swore that if he survived the fight with the dead that he would return to tear it down.

“Just a bit further, boy,” Jaime whispered into his horse’s ear. “We’re almost to the crossing and then we’ll stay at the inn. No more lean-tos and soup. We’ll get a proper meal.”

The horse nickered in response causing Jaime to try to raise his left hand to rub the horse’s neck. He lacked the strength to do so. Instead, Jaime held onto the reigns and did his best to stay in the saddle with his eyes open.

After a half-hour of riding the wind picked up even more intensity, whipping snow from the trees, causing Jaime to expend precious energy on pulling his traveling cloak’s hood lower over his head. Glory horse neighed and halted.

“I know. I know. So much for reaching the inn. Let’s see if this will pass.”

The former Kingsguard and Lord of House Lannister dismounted to hold the horse’s reigns as he led the horse slightly off the road to an outcropping of rock offering shelter from the storm. Jaime tied off the horse’s leads as the wind hammered relentlessly at Jaime and the snows blinded him.

Since losing his hand Jaime had become accustomed to the challenge of ordinary tasks. Jaime had taken pride in his self-sufficiency in years now past but now even shitting presented obstacles for the one-handed knight. Undeterred by the challenge presented by the elements and his own limitations, Jaime ventured out into the storm to search for firewood. He did not want to go far from the outcropping, fearful that he might lose his orientation and become lost in what was fast becoming a blizzard. After searching for a while he found enough kindling to get the fire going. He gathered it and stumbled back to where he intended to camp, worn out and breathing heavily.

As he neared his intended campsite, his right foot tripped on the uneven ground, sending him sprawling forward. As he fell he threw the clutch of firewood in a wide arc just in time for him to land hard, face first in the snow. Stars flashed in his eyes and an intense throbbing rose rapidly in his skull.

Lying on the ground, Jaime Lannister tried to breathe. The wind had been knocked out of him and his lungs gasped for breath. Jaime felt a trickle of warm blood drip from his forehead.

_Get up! Get up! You’ll die in the cold and snow if you don’t start a fire. Get up!_

His body, however, did not respond.

_Move, you idiot! You have to move!_

Still no response.

 _Maybe if I rest here for a moment and gather my strength, I’ll be able to make a fire and wait out the storm. You have time. There is time_ , he reassured himself, fearing gnawing at the back of his mind _._

_Gather strength. Rest for moment and then move and move with haste to get the fire started._

Jaime tried to focus his mind to block out the swirling elements. His thoughts wandered to more pleasant events in his memories in an effort to seek out motivation.

He thought about when he joined the Kingsguard. Cersei and Jaime had conspired together for him to be made a Kingsguard so they could remain physically close in the capital. Yet, it had still been a point of pride for Jaime to be named to the august Kingsguard irrespective of his lascivious intentions with his sister. His and Cersei’s plans fell apart when Tywin sensed insult behind Aerys’s decision to name Jaime and essentially disinherit Tywin’s heir.

 _A false honor_ , his father had observed.  _One meant only as slight and injury to our family._

Tywin promptly resigned as Hand and returned to Casterly Rock with Cersei, leaving Jaime alone at King's Landing.

“Cersei,” he whispered into the snow. “Cersei.”

His thoughts roved through time to an all too brief encounter with the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, prior to the prince’s departure on the fateful march to the Ruby Ford. Jaime had asked to accompany the Prince but he had declined Jaime's request. Instead, the Prince rode forth to battle with three members of the Kingsguard protecting him: Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jonothor Darry, and Ser Llewyn Martell. All three were Jaime’s brothers. They were good and earnest men. But they were not the Sword of the Morning or the White Bull. They were not Jaime. Only Ser Barristan had survived and the remaining Kingsguard died at a nondescript tower in Dorne.

_Rhaegar now lies beneath the ground._

His sworn brothers had abandoned him the day of the Ruby Ford. Ser Barristan had also never forgiven Jaime for slaying Aerys, violating a sacred oath to protect the king. He had never asked for Jaime’s reasons. Consequently, the two had passed nearly two decades speaking only in cold tones fraught with bitterness.

Finding a reserve of strength and determination, Jaime pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He heard his horse nicker, whine, and stamp its hooves closeby but Jaime could not see the beast. Jaime struggled to gather the scattered firewood and slowly trudged in the direction he hoped was of the outcropping.

After clearing a small spot that had the most protection from the wind, Jaime attempted to light the fire. It was awkward, striking flint and steel with his left hand. He foolish when his strikes would miss the mark. His feelings on ineptitude only grew when he did strike true and yet no sparks flew. Jaime had little strength or patience to spare when he finally achieved his goal.

Warm flames rose from the fire pit giving Jaime instant relief and sending waves of pain through his fingers and toes as they warmed. Jaime hunkered down over the fire and encouraged Glory to come as close as he dared to the heat.

After resting for a while, Jaime stood up and walked over to the saddle bags. He removed pieces of jerky and brought them back to the fire to thaw them. He gave what provisions he had to Glory and then tried to be patient.

The storm lasted for hours, fresh powder falling from the sky and stifling the forest’s sounds. Occasionally Jaime heard wolves howling in the distance. He had heard reports of wolf packs roaming the Riverlands and knew that if a pack found him and wanted him as dinner that there would be little he could do about it.

The snowfall obliterated traces of the trail Jaime had been following. After the snow stopped and Jaime set out once more he relied purely on instinct.

Many hours later Jaime arrived at the Inn at the Crossroads. It was early evening and darkness had fallen over the land. Lanterns cast their light across the crossroads as Jaime pulled up on Glory’s reigns. It was risky stopping. If Cersei was looking for him she surely would have sent someone to the Inn to keep a lookout. Jaime needed supplies and rest. He did not know if he could continue at the rapid pace that he had taken out of the capital. It would have to be a risk that he would take and he knew that the Inn at the Crossroads was the busiest Inn for travelers in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps he could get a meal, some rest, and leave without drawing any attention to himself.

All of the kingdom’s major thoroughfares intersected near the Inn. Hence, its name: Inn at the Crossroads. Travelers from the Vale of Arryn would pass by the Inn on their way south. Travelers from the Westerlands would pass the Inn heading to the Vale or south to the Stormlands or Dorne. If one wanted to traverse the entirety of Westeros on foot, one would most likely travel past the Inn.

Jaime dismounted and paid for a stall for Glory in the livery stables close by the Inn. Jaime had removed his valuables from the saddle and carried  _Widow’s Wail_ , still wrapped in burlap, into the Inn.

The Inn bustled with patrons. After Jaime’s eyes adjusted to the dull lighting and his ears to the raucous noise inside the dining hall, he noticed that it had changed substantially since he last visited. That had been on the way back to King’s Landing from Winterfell with Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. The royal wagon train had paused at the Inn for a brief respite while horses were watered and fed. It was during that brief sojourn that Joffrey had attacked Arya Stark and a commoner, resulting in the boy being slain and a dire wolf being put to the blade by Lord Stark himself. Jaime had not paid much attention to the affair at the time but a dark pall lingered over the train for the remainder of the journey back to the capital.

The Inn had good food, ale, and entertainment in those days. A variety of minstrels frequented the Inn, playing bawdy tunes from the slightly raised platform near the hearth. There had always been a roaring fire to keep the travelers comfortable as they shared stories of love, loss, or rank gossip. That was before the War of the Five Kings ravaged the land and before his father had set the Riverlands aflame from the God’s Eye to the Red Fork.

The Inn had closed briefly during the war. Jaime had later learned that the Brotherhood without Banners had used the abandoned Inn as a staging point for some of their bolder forays against the armies of the crown. Once Robb Stark perished at the Twins and Stannis Baratheon retreated to Dragonstone and then to the Wall the Inn reopened.

Jaime stepped through the dining hall, seeking a table furthest from the door where he could sit with his back against a wall to prevent anyone from surprising him. There were an unusually high amount of whores in the Inn, plying their services. The women were barely covered, with their breasts peeking out of low hanging, thin dresses that left little to the imagination. He fended off two as he made way to an open table. The Inn felt dirty to Jaime. Dirty and desperate.

 _Almost as if they sensed that the end of the world was upon them._   _Enjoy it while you can._

A few moments after Jaime had taken his seat a  rotund young man with a curly mop of hair approached him.

“What’ll it be fer ya, ser? We have onion soup with creamed taters and an odd pea or two. There’s braised lamb or roasted chicken if you like. We also have wolfbread, if it pleases ya.”

“Wolfbread. What in blazes is wolfbread?”

The lad shifted in his boots.

“Its bread, ser. Made to look like a wolf, see. I can show you.”

The boy waddled over to the bar and reached behind it drawing something from the shelf. He came back and displayed a piece of bread that was, not to Jaime’s surprise, shaped like a wolf.

“Here ya are, ser. Wolfbread. I make it meself.”

“I see,” Jaime responded taking the piece of bread from the boy. He examined the bread and was impressed by its detail. It was not just some amorphous animal that was intended to look like a wolf but it had all the markings of the dire wolf on House Stark’s sigil.

“And why not lionbread, boy? You know that the Queen is a Lannister and if she were to stop here and see that you offered only wolfbread and not lionbread she might take offense,” Jaime observed, mocking the lad.

“I dunno. I just like wolves. I guess I could make lionbread if I felt like it. The bread’s been popular though. It has a sweetness to it. The key is to . . .”

Jaime cut him off.

“I’ll take some lamb and a piece of this wolfbread,” he said, holding the bread aloft. “And some mulled wine. I need something to warm myself after my ride.”

The boy nodded.

“Right, ser. Right away, ser.” The fat boy trundled off to the kitchen, leaving the piece of wolfbread in Jaime’s hand.

Jaime had kept his riding cloak’s hood pulled over his head. There were good odds that someone would recognize him if he were to remove it and display his golden colored hair, though it had started to be tinged ever so slightly with silver at his temples. He leaned back to watch the Inn’s denizens and to wait for his supper, breaking off a piece of bread at the wolf’s head. He took a large bite.

_It was sweet but with the right amount of saltiness that all bread should have. It is, quite honestly, delicious._

As Jaime ate the surprisingly delectable wolfbread his mind wandered back to the Battle of the Black Dread, as it had come to be known. He thought of his horse, Honor, who had died during that battle. Honor had been his favored horse over Glory, having ridden the stallion up the stairs of the Sept of Baelor to confront the High Sparrow in what turned out to be his last act as a member of the Kingsguard. Honor charged to his death at Jaime’s urging as he sought to duplicate his  _heroics_  from the rebellion, when he ended Aerys II Targaryen’s reign.

 _Man without honor,_ he heard in his mind _._

The reason he had acted so foolishly during the battle had eluded him for some time. His solitary and silent time riding north had brought about some insight.

 _I took bold action with Aerys, why not his daughter too._   _I saved countless lives by acting boldly. Taking the initiative to slay Daenerys would have accomplished the same ends._

At least that was what Jaime told himself to justify his recklessness. The dragon, sensing its mother was in danger, had turned at the last moment and let loose a conical blast of fiery death that Jaime avoided due solely to Bronn’s quick action. Honor had not been so lucky and took the full brunt of the dragon’s blast, immolating instantly.

 _Now I truly am a man without Honor_ , he thought bitterly as he chewed his bread.  _Fitting._

The fat boy brought Jaime his lamb and a mug of mulled wine. The lamb was not cooked to his taste and the wine was more lukewarm than mulled.

_The wolfbread might be the best item on the menu._

As he ate, Jaime watched the whores parade about the dining hall seeking to persuade patrons to purchase some time with them. Some of the whores approached Jaime, breasts bare and cupped pleasingly in their hands, offering to take him upstairs. Each one who had approached him promptly offered him discounts once they saw his strong jaw covered in a week’s growth of stubble and brilliant green eyes. Jaime declined them all.

Jaime finished his meal and thought about getting a room for the night. He started walking toward the Inn’s Madame, a tall, thin, and especially plain looking woman with shoulder length brown hair and eyes the color of mud, to make the necessary inquiry.

As Jaime arrived at the counter where the Madame stood drying mugs with a dirty rag the main door to the Inn swung open. A sharp blast of cold air followed with snow showering the door’s threshold. Jaime turned toward the door, his hand dropping instinctively to his longsword’s hilt. A hush fell over the Inn as its occupants turned their collective attention to the doorway and to the people entering the Inn. Jaime backed away towards the table he had just abandoned where he sat down and pulled his hood forward.

Five heavily armed men entered with heavy footfalls filling the dense air. Jaime could faintly make out the sound of armor clinking beneath the heavy traveling cloaks worn by each man. He could see their alert dark eyes surveying the room for potential dangers. Each man wore a fine sword his hip; Jaime, unfortunately, could see no heraldry to identify them and their outerwear was quite commonplace. As he watched them enter deeper into the Inn Jaime noted they carried themselves with a fluidity and precision indicative of skilled combatants.

 _Not brigands or untrained ruffians._   _No, these are men of war._

A short boy followed the men into the Inn. He too wore a cloak but his hood had been blown back by the winter gale, exposing a head full of pale blonde hair. Jaime searched the boy’s face to see whether he recognized him.

 _He seems familiar_. The child’s dark blue eyes reflected an almost unnatural gleam in the dim lighting. The child shook his head to remove the dusting of snow that lay on his head. Jaime could not place him in his memory.

The lad was followed by a tall, slender, and nearly fully hooded individual. Jaime could see the lower portion of the person’s face, which belied distinct feminine features. Unlike the men, the woman wore a silver velvet cloak, the hem adorned in pale lavender. Jaime noted that she moved with an eerily uncommon elegance. Jaime watched as the woman reached out and replaced the boy’s hood with a thin hand.

Seven more large men followed her into the Inn. These men all bore the same weaponry and cloaks as the initial five men in the vanguard. Jaime strained his eyes again to see if he could recognize any identifying marks to no avail. Jaime maintained his vigil as the newcomers walked to the bar where Jaime had just been standing.

As the group began their conversation with the Madame, the Inn slowly resumed its normal volume and activity. The Madame nodded, gestured, and pointed upstairs. Jaime could see the boy and woman confer and then give an unheard response. Some of the men started up the stairs.

Jaime leaned forward and pushed his hood back to see better in his attempts to identify them. Curiosity and a sense of fear pounded in his brain.

 _They are not commoners_ , Jaime told himself.  _If they see me they will surely recognize me. Anyone of Westeros’s nobility would._

The pale haired boy stole a quick glance over toward Jaime as he started up the stairs. He did a double-take. Their eyes met and Jaime immediately saw a note of recognition register in the boy.

_If he doesn’t know me he at least thinks he does. This won’t end well._

The boy tugged on the woman’s cloak and whispered something to her. Jaime stood up and made his way to the doorway. He had to leave.

The woman nodded sharply to the men who were still gathered at the base of the stairwell. Jaime was still a few meters away when they fanned out, blocking his exit, with their hands on their swords’ pommels.

 _If only I had my sword hand you’d all be dead men, even in such close quarters_.  _As it is, I’d be lucky to get one of you before being subdued_.

“Your pardon, sers. I was just leaving,” Jaime said, splaying his hands wide in a gesture signaling his intent to avoid a fight. “No need for those fine devices.”

“No pardon necessary, my Lord of Lannister,” came a feminine, melodious voice from the stairs above. “We merely wish a word with you.”

Jaime recognized the Dornish accent but not the voice itself.

He turned and looked upward only to behold a woman of such striking beauty that his mouth went dry. Jaime had never had eyes for any woman other than Cersei but he knew what constituted pure beauty. The woman’s hood had been pulled back. Her loose, jet-black hair hung just past her shoulders, perfectly framing her pale face. She had fine feminine features that almost appeared to have been chiseled from marble by master craftsmen.

But it was not the woman’s picturesque face that mesmerized Jaime in that moment—it was her violet eyes, whose depth of color seemed to envelop Jaime completely. He had never been affected by a woman’s eyes like this before, including Cersei’s bewitching greens. No, this woman’s eyes even made the Dragon Queen’s amethyst-colored eyes seem quaint by comparison. They had a resonance and depth that put the valyrian hue to shame.

Jaime had seen those eyes only once before many years ago.

“Ashara Dayne,” he muttered in disbelief.

The woman gave Jaime a reluctant, sad smile.

“No, Ser Jaime. Though I would consider it a compliment to be considered merely a shadow of my dear Ashara, I am but her sister, Allyria of House Dayne,” the woman said with the same inviting, yet distinctly Dornish, timbre that had so caught his attention. “Please come speak with me for a moment before venturing out into the treacherous cold. I have no intent to keep you long.”

Allyria signaled to her men and they stood aside. Without waiting for Jaime’s response, Allyria continued up the stairs to her room. Jaime watched them for a moment but then stepped forward, slowly ascending the stairs and proceeding to Allyria’s quarters.

Two of the guards flanked the doorway when Jaime entered in time to see Allyria remove her cloak. She wore a high-necked dress of deep purple and white. House Dayne’s sigil was proudly displayed on the skirt. Jaime stood shocked that a woman could be traveling and yet with the mere removal of a cloak present such an almost transcendent visage.

“Ser Jaime,” she said addressing him and pointing to the boy standing near a broken chair, “this is my nephew, the Lord of Starfall, Edric Dayne.”

The lad nodded.

“Hello, Ser Jaime. I recognized you from my time at Court as Lord Beric Dondarrion’s squire. I apologize if my men caused you any distress.”

“No, my Lord Dayne,” Jaime responded coolly, “No distress. Just disappointment that I do not bear a more common appearance to have avoided your notice and recognition.”

Jaime saw it now—the resemblance the boy bore to his uncle, Ser Arthur. He turned to Allyria.

“My lady, pray tell me why the Lord of Starfall and you, his aunt, have ventured so far beyond the borders of Dorne. And in such ghastly weather too. Surely you’re not on holiday.”

Allyria smiled at Jaime, this time more warmly than before.

“No, Ser Jaime. No holiday. We ride for Winterfell.”

“Strange,” Jaime responded, taking his eyes of Allyria and looking around the sparsely decorated room. “That is my destination as well.”

Allyria walked around a chair where she had laid her cloak toward the fire. She warmed her hands by it.

“It seems that the gods have saw fit to bring our respective paths together, Ser Jaime.”

“I highly doubt that the gods had anything to do with it,” he quipped. “The Knights of Starfall have never, at least to my knowledge, ventured as far north as Winterfell. Why now?”

“You know why, Ser Jaime,” Edric eagerly responded. The boy had sat down in the broken chair. It only had three legs attached. Its fourth “leg” was merely a stack of rocks. “The Great War has come. The living and the dead. House Dayne must do its part for the living.”

Jaime gave Edric a sympathetic nod in agreement. That was the whole reason Jaime had abandoned everything.

Allyria interjected before Edric could continue.

“House Dayne is loyal to House Targaryen and as you are aware, Ser Jaime, that loyalty has never wavered. Even during King Robert’s hostile inquisitions about our loyalty, we remained committed to see the dragons restored. Now that Daenerys has arrived in Westeros, the time has come. But first we must aid our Queen in the war for the living.”

Allyria paced in front of the fireplace, careful so the hem of her skirt did not catch the flame. Jaime was not sure whether her feet touched the ground while she paced. She continued.

“When my house first heard that Queen Daenerys had landed at Dragonstone we immediately made preparations to meet her,” Allyria began. “Her Hand, your brother Tyrion, requested that Lord Edric travel to Dragonstone to meet with her. We dared not go by sea since the kraken’s fleet haunts the southern shores; instead, we took a small vessel up the Torrentine and rode overland to Ashford, Longtable, and then on to Bitterbridge.”

“Once we arrived at Bitterbridge, we received word of a grand summit between Houses Targaryen, Stark, and Lannister to discuss a potential cessation of hostilities. It was our desire to also meet with Ned Stark’s son along with Queen Daenerys. House Dayne owes House Stark a profound debt. Thus, we altered the plans and made for the capital.”

Allyria lowered her eyes and brought her hands together at her waist.

“We were too late, though; the Queen left prior to our arrival at the capital’s outskirts.”

Jaime had known that House Dayne’s loyalty to House Targaryen persisted past the close of the war. It was a public _secret_ throughout the realm. Robert had spoken of riding south to teach the Lords of Starfall a lesson but cooler heads had prevailed. It had taken centuries to bring Dorne into the fold in the first place and setting out against one of the most notable houses in Dorne would have certainly caused a schism. Dorne had, after all, fought on the loyalist side during Robert’s Rebellion and attacking it might have renewed hostilities in the forsaken sands that even the dragons failed to subdue.

Ned Stark’s actions after Ser Arthur’s death had helped salve House Dayne’s wounds suffered during the conflict. Ned had returned House Dayne’s ancestral sword to Starfall. Consequently, House Dayne had never forgotten the kindness and respect that House Stark had shown it following the death of the Sword of the Morning; this resulted in a diminution in the seditious rhetoric coming out of Starfall and High Hermitage as time passed. Lord Edric, it was said, bore the nickname “Ned” out of respect for the late Lord Stark.

“It is now your turn, Ser Jaime. What brings you here to the crossroads all alone?” Allyria asked. “You have no retainers nor do you wear your house’s armor or sigil. Instead you appear as a lowly sell sword—a lone rider on the Kingsroad—and are found skulking in corners at an Inn turned brothel.”

Allyria gave Jaime a bemused smirk.

 _Gods! Even that had been_ enchanting, Jaime thought. She continued.

“I had heard that Queen Cersei had pledged the Lannister armies to fight alongside Queen Daenerys and the King in the North.”

She pressed her lips together tightly and took several strides towards Jaime, stopping right in front of him. She smelled of rosemary and spice.

“I am not schooled in warfare but it appears to be a peculiar and insufficient military force if the Lord of House Lannister, the Warden of the West, and the commander of the Iron Throne’s armies, rides north in abject solitude.”

Jaime lowered his eyes from Allyria’s gaze and shifted slightly.

“The Queen—my sister—has mixed feelings about committing the entire Lannister force to the venture,” Jaime lamely responded.

Allyria scoffed a mirthless response.

“You need not lie to me, Ser Jaime. Cersei’s time on the iron throne will end one way or the other. Either the dead win or House Targaryen will be restored. Either way, Cersei’s time is up.”

“Perhaps.” Jaime responded, frowning at her.

“I have seen the dead, my lady. I promised to fight for the living and I intend to keep my promises. But I can guarantee, however, that cost of the fight ahead will be dear. Your Dragon Queen might not survive the war. Her forces might be annihilated on the field or, more likely, severely depleted during the fight against the dead. Her dragons might be killed. Oh yes, they are vulnerable—a lesson Dorne taught the Seven Kingdoms at Hellholt a decade after the Conquest. Queens have died even on dragonback. Daenerys might be so weak in her victory that she will be incapable of striking south to retake the iron throne.”

Allyria turned away from Jaime and walked back toward the fireplace. Several moments passed before Allyria turned back to face Jaime.

“You are wrong, Ser Jaime.” The cadence of her words had changed, her tone tinged with purpose. “House Targaryen will be restored. The alliance between Houses Targaryen and Stark will reshape the world.”

Allyria’s eyes danced in the firelight.

“Ride with us, Ser Jaime. Ride with us to Winterfell so you can see House Targaryen win the Dawn. There is no need for you to be lost in your own regrets or wallow in solitude.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed as he considered her offer. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded his assent. At least for this part of his journey, Jaime Lannister would not be passing through it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter surprised me. It started out as the shortest chapter out of the three so far but as I considered Jaime's arc and where I want to take him, it blossomed into the longest chapter yet. Jaime is one of my favorite characters in the entire series--so it was fun trying to get into his head space even just a little bit.
> 
> Ned's visit to House Dayne after the Tower of Joy is one of the great unexplored mysteries in the book and show. We know so precious little about what really transpired other than (1) Ned returned Dawn and (2) Ashara threw herself from the Palestone Sword into the sea and that her body was never recovered. The books give us some information from Edric's conversation with Arya (which I've ignored because it's not show canon) and Allyria was betrothed to Beric but that's really it. Anyway, bringing House Dayne back into the story is going to be a fun and I hope provide some interesting material.
> 
> Thanks again for comments, kudos, and for reading. More coming (but probably a little longer between the next update and this one, just fyi.)


	4. The Fallen Dragon

“The Night King. He has a dragon.”

Jon's words pierced Dany like an arrow through her heart. She locked eyes with Jon; but no one spoke for several heavy moments. Dany felt the heat of her blood rise within her, her chest tightening, and her breathing quickening as she contemplated the implications of what Jon had said. To Dany Jon’s words constituted her worst nightmare and the thing she had feared the most since leaving her child beyond the Wall.

Jon took a step toward her but she firmly held up a hand to stop him from getting any closer. White hot rage boiled inside her and Dany did not want Jon to try to assuage it from her. She glanced at Missandei whose face had turned the color of ash, the look on her face expectant and uncertain. She looked at Tyrion and then Jorah. Fear and worry plainly adorned their unmasked faces—concern for her and fear of what her response might be.

Dany looked quickly back to Jon and could immediately tell from his expression and posture he wanted to speak with her, possibly to console her. That was not what she wanted. She wanted nothing good but vengeance, an urgent desire for fire and blood. Outwardly, however, Dany maintained her composure, masking the pulsating throb of anger rising within.

Rather than say anything to the group Dany turned away from the gathering, which had until the reading of the scroll had been quite amiable under the circumstances, and walked away toward a small copse of trees to the northeast of the road. Jon made to pursue her.

“Leave her be, Jon,” Tyrion grimly counseled. “This is dire news. Her grace will need a measure of time alone. We will need time as well. I am not your Hand but I advise against pursuing her . . . for now.”

Hesitating, Jon shot Tyrion a hostile look overflowing with frustration. He exhaled and grimaced. Turning on his heel, he marched back toward Arya and the Stark men.

Dany, however, trekked through the collection of trees through deepening snow toward a clearing beyond which lay a denser forest. The evergreens outside White Harbor slowly thickened into a woods that during the other seasons offered a pleasant escape from the bustle of the city. With a distinct lack of perception or care, Dany made her way through the forest not noticing which direction she was going or that the snow’s depth increased rapidly. At first her steps were easy. The further she went from the roadway the less sure her footing with the snow deepening suddenly. She encountered deep drifts that require her to half dig her way out. Rather than return to the group she continued on, alone, into the woods. When she finally stopped after a quarter hour of hiking, she was drenched sweat from the hard work of trudging through the snowy terrain. Thin plumes of steam rose from her sweat matted hair.

Dany’s eyes scanned her surroundings. The evergreens were flocked in heavy powder, their bows bent gracefully almost in acknowledge of her royalty. A gentle hum of creatures surrounded her and she could hear a faint gurgle of a stream nearby. She approached one of the taller evergreens whose trunk was exposed and under which she could stand without her head grazing the lowest branches. Leaning against the trunk, Dany tried to calm her heavy breathing and to find some clarity of thought.

Dany had mourned Viserion in the only way she knew. She did not know what her ancestors had done to mourn their dragons when they died nor did she know what the ancient dragonlords of Valyria had done to honor the dead. Even if she had known it would not have mattered. Those ancestors were not a dragons’ mother as she was to her triplets. As far as Dany knew they had not entered the flames and emerged reborn as a dragon queen. Hers was a unique relationship with her dragons, one that forged a relationship deeper than mere dragon and rider. The dragons were her family--the only family she had left.

The shock of losing Viserion had so affected Dany that she existed in a fog and stupor for a period of time. When she finally was rousted from her dismay the weight of guilt and responsibility had remained as a constant burden on her heart. Dany had isolated herself from her councilors for a brief time as she grieved, her appetite and sleep abandoning her. Never before had Dany felt such a profound sense of hopelessness and loss as she had in the immediate aftermath of Viserion’s death. Not even in the early days of joining Drogo’s khalasar had she felt alone. She had Viserys, Jorah, her maids, and, of course, the dragon eggs. Destiny  always seemed to grant special favors upon Daenerys Targaryen and her newborn dragons. With Viserion’s passing Dany worried that destiny may have finally abandoned her.

So it was that one day as she grieved at the Wall that she climbed the thousands of steps above Eastwatch to one of the Night’s Watch sentry towers. From there Dany stood vigil, looking into the true North for a sign—any sign—that her faith in dragons, herself and her children, had not been misplaced. She yearned to see Viserion fly toward the Wall fully recovered from what she knew had been a mortal wound. Yet her desire had not been satisfied by destiny that day.

Instead, only Jon returned, frozen and near death. His miraculous return kindled a small spark of hope inside Dany. When he fell into the lake’s icy depths Dany did not have the good fortune to wait for him to reemerge having been forced to flee by the Night King. Losing Jon on the heels of Viserion being shot from the sky had devastated her. Thus, Dany had been grateful that Jon, at least, had returned even though her deepest desire was to be reunited with a fallen dragon.

Dany’s thoughts returned to the present as she heard a noise from behind her. Missandei had followed her alone through the snow and was still several meters away from her. The young woman of Naath had stepped into a deep drift and was having difficult dislodging herself. Dany sympathetically hiked back to where Missandei was struggling to make any headway.

“Your pardon, your Grace. I have never experienced weather like this or even seen snow,” Missandei explained. Dany grabbed the girl’s hands and pulled her free from the powder.

“Thank you, your Grace,” she said, finding her footing and straightening herself.

“The dragon, Missandei. The dragon is Viserion. I know it is,” Dany said.

“Your Grace?”

“The Night King’s dragon. It has to be Viserion. He has raised him from the dead,” Dany explained.

Dany could see Missandei’s expression change as she processed what her queen had told her. Dany’s thoughts lingered on Viserion, what he had happened and what he had become, and she started shaking with fury.

“He has taken my child and turned him against me.” Her eyes raged, the lilac pupils dilating as her heart rate rose. She balled her hands into fists, her pulse pounding so loudly that it echoed in her ears. “That CANNOT happen! I won’t let it.”

“No, your Grace.”

Dany turned away from her friend and strode off in a seemingly random direction. Missandei followed her in silence, the only sounds being the gurgling of the White Knife from the distance and snow crunching underfoot. After walking for several minutes, Dany stopped and turned to face Missandei again.

“The Night King must pay. He must pay for taking my child. He will pay for corrupting him. I will _burn_ him and his army to ashes!”

“Yes, your Grace.” Missandei’s voice, Dany could tell, had been softened in an effort to defuse the Dany’s wrath and to calm her rage. She could see that Missandei had been affected by the news of her dragon’s resurrection and her queen’s anger. Missandei’s reaction struck a chord in Dany.

Missandei had been with her since Astapor. She had become her closest confidante and friend. Dany had shared her most intimate secrets with Missandei, including her fears, hopes, and trepidations. Looking at Missandei’s face, clearly shrouded by a heart broken for her friend and queen, made Dany lose her composure.

Her fury melted into grief-stricken sorrow in an instant. Tears welled in her eyes. She could feel a lump rise in her throat. Then, after the briefest of moments, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, fell to her knees and openly wept.

“He was my child,” she mourned, hot tears flowing from her eyes. “He was my child and he’s lost. I failed him—I failed him.” A mournful scream that had been pent up inside her since Viseron’s death escaped her.

Missandei immediately rushed to Dany’s side as quickly as the snow allowed and placed her arms around her to comfort her. Dany’s sobbed for what seemed like several minutes before speaking again.

“It is my fault. Had I not chained him in the dungeons of Meereen he would have been stronger. He would have learned more. To fight. He would have grown larger and stronger. His scales would have been harder, perhaps hard enough to absorb the Night King’s javelin strike. His fires would have been burned hotter. But I locked him away, being deceived. I . . .” she paused and looked directly into Missandei’s eyes, “I killed my child.”

“No, your Grace. No.”

“You are sweet to comfort me but lies do me no good,” Dany responded, tears continuing to stream down her face. “I know what I have done and there are none who can absolve me of my sins. I am responsible for his death and for what he has become.”

She stood back up, snow covering her pants beneath her winter coat. She wiped tears from her face and steeled herself.

“I must be the one to stop him—to account for my failures as a mother and queen.”

Dany walked several meters further into the clearing. She breathed deeply, trying to regulate her breath, and trying to focus her volatile emotions. She had been happy, content even, with Jon on the boat traveling the North. The two had plotted, planned, wined, and dined together as the traveled. They had grieved, confided, and shared all manner of intimacies in the quiet hours of the nights. She would never have guessed that Jon could have found such a place in her heart when they first met on Dragonstone; yet, in Jon she had found an equal. Despite her bond with Jon, Dany did not want to be around him or anyone else for that matter. She needed more time.

 “It will not do to return to Jon and the others at the gate,” Dany said to Missandei. She looked to the grey sky, her eyes searching its expanse. Through her bond with Drogon that even she did not understand she called out to him.

Moments later she heard a dragon’s screech echo from the sky as the giant black dragon flew over the two women, casting a long dark shadow over his mother and Missandei. He wheeled through the sky and turned back toward his mother, touching down with a resounding crash, filling the air with snow powder th shaken from both the earth and trees. Dany waited for the snow to settle before walking toward the dragon.

The snow and icy ground around Drogon melted almost instantly, his hot fires emanating from his body, making the ground quite wet underfoot as Dany came close. She reached out and stroked the dragon’s neck, comforting him. Drogon purred loudly with pleasure at his mother’s touch.

After climbing aboard the dragon, Dany looked at Missandei, who remained several meters away.

“Tell Jon that I will find him on the road north tonight.”

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing and offering a weak smile.

Dany leaned forward and whispered the valyrian command for flight to Drogon. He extended his wings and used his powerful legs to push off the ground straight into the air. His wings moved with such power that the forest filled with flying snow. Missandei watched as the dragon quickly found his wind and climbed into the winter sky.

Dany looked down at Missandei, growing smaller by the moment, as she soared on dragonback up over the forest. She saw the makeshift depot outside the gate and people milling about. The people were small, almost insignificant, from the height which she had obtained. Rhaegal soon joined them.

Her first impulse was to head north, toward Eastwatch to see whether the Wall had truly fallen. She did not doubt the Lord Commander’s information but it all seemed implausible to her. It _had_ been implausible before learning about Viserion.

During their war council meetings on the trip north, Jon, Jorah, and Tyrion had repeatedly discussed the defensive advantages that the Wall provided. The Wall would slow the dead’s advance. There was powerful magic woven into the Wall that, according to myth, should even prevent the dead from passing through the Wall’s gates.

The Wall's advantages were now meaningless, Dany knew, and it did her little good to dwell on the lost advantages that the living could never recoup. The dead, it seemed, would be fought on its terms and not on the terms set by the living. That meant that she and her children would be more at risk during the war to come. She could not be the “smart queen” as Tyrion had admonished her; she and her dragons would have to be at the fore of the battle to deal with the Night King and Viserion. In Dany’s mind, it was the only way.

* * *

It was nightfall before Dany returned back to the wagon train from White Harbor. Jon had set torches about the camp so Dany could easily find them along the road north. He had even had some of his men clear a landing area near the camp’s outskirts. The wagon train had made it several leagues up the road toward Castle Cerwyn after Dany had left the group. The pavilions and tents were set in circular fashion, with the largest constituting the camp’s hub and the smaller tents, for the Stark, Manderly, and other house’s men, further out. Makeshift stockades had been hastily constructed for the train’s defense, if necessary; though it was almost unheard of for bandits or others to maraud during winter.

Drogon cut through the cold air and descended with another heavy thud in the landing area Jon had cleared close to the camp. Jon stood at the far end of the clearing, his hair pulled back, his heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders, and Longclaw at his hip. He held a burning torch aloft in his gloved right hand, the light playing softly off his slate grey eyes. His gaze found Daenerys, her hair more windswept than when she left him outside White Harbor, as she carefully dismounted.

She saw him too but did not immediately move toward him. She had anticipated that he would be waiting her when she arrived back at the camp. Dany stayed by Drogon for a few moments, stroking his neck and jaw. He turned his massive head toward his mother and hummed, clearly pleased. Dany spoke softly to Drogon and after a moment he turned back toward Jon, who was slowly approaching her and the dragon.

“Welcome back.” His voice was steady and unperturbed, belying no annoyance at Daenerys’s earlier behavior.

She turned toward her lover and smiled weakly. She knew that she did not need to put on airs around him. She could be herself.

“Thank you. I apologize for leaving like I did. I…I needed to be alone for a while. I needed to . . .”

Jon took a single step in her direction, stopping just beyond Drogon’s head and forewing. The dragon breathed deeply, melting some of the snow that lay underfoot. Jon hesitated.

“It’s alright, Daenerys. I understand why you left. We all understood. There was no harm done,” Jon replied soberly and with a heavy tone. “I explained to Lord Manderly what happn’d beyond the Wall. How it was Viserion who the Night King slew and how it must have been Viserion who is now among the ranks of the army of the dead.”

Dany lifted her head and met his gaze. Jon’s guilt over Viserion’s death was writ large in the expression he wore on his face, clearly evident in his eyes. She could see him hesitate and his uncertainty about what to do next. She tried to maintain her composure and stepped forward, embracing him.

Jon wrapped his strong arms around her, his fur cloak enveloping them both. Neither he nor she wept; instead, they just held each other. For a moment their concerns dissipated from their thoughts. Slowly, Jon pulled out of their embrace.

“Shall we head to camp? I had called a council before I heard the dragons approach but I can tell them that we need more time given your arrival. They should all be gathered now.”

“No,” Dany said quietly, gathering herself. “Let us proceed. With the Night King and the dead past the Wall we need to move swiftly. The fact that Viserion is among the army of the dead is dire news. We must address it but as I considered the development while away I do not think it to be as calamitous as it may seem.”

Jon looked at her curiously for a moment. “Care to explain?”

“Yes,” she responded, cocking her head to the side slightly, her lips tightening, “but you said you called a council. I would rather explain it there.”

“Aye. Alright then. Come with me.”

Dany spoke a few words in valyrian to Drogon and the great dragon moved off to join his brother toward the clearing’s edge. Jon took Dany’s right hand in his left and the two of them walked down the torch-lit path toward the stockades. Stark soldiers stood guard and acknowledged them both as they passed. The camp was alive with men huddled around small fires to warm themselves and to cook supper. The men paused their convivial activities as Jon and Dany walked past, each of them stopping to gape at the King in the North walking hand-in-hand with the Dragon Queen.

The large pavilion Jon led her to was completely unadorned with heraldry with the exception of the Stark and Targaryen banners having been posted on either side of the tent’s entrance. Dany was greeted by the tent’s occupants. Jorah, Missandei, Tyrion, and others. A medium sized table stood in the center of the tent with a map of the lands surrounding Winterfell spread out on top. Similar to the painted table back on Dragonstone, carved markers identified troop locations throughout the North. She saw a dragon placed on the site of Moat Cailin.

Dany recognized everyone in the tent except one person, the young woman with whom Jon had spoken after they had arrived at the depot outside the gates of White Harbor. Her advisors gathered around the map table. As Dany stepped forward to join them all she saw the young woman slip out of the tent.

 _I must find time to ask Jon about her_ , she thought.

“All right,” Jon said stepping forward and leaning over the table. “With the Night King and the dead through the Wall our position is more desperate than we had realized. The Wall was breached by the dead at Eastwatch. Here.”

Jon set a large black marker down where the map identified Eastwatch.

“The Wall being breached is dire news. We all believed that we would be able to mount a defense atop a 700-meter wall of ice, raining fire and dragon glass down on them from a strong defensive position. Our trebuchets, scorpions, and arrows would have been more effective and accurate. We will no longer have those advantages.”

“Her Grace’s dragons would also have been more effective defending at Wall. It would have provided cover to the dragons so they could reposition and attack, retaining an aspect of surprise. They could have risen up above the Wall and swooped down to attack the dead and then they could have taken cover behind the Wall as necessary.”

“The dead are most likely to encounter the Umbers at Last Hearth.” He indicated Last Hearth’s location with his left hand. “Now, the Lord of Last Hearth is Ned Umber, merely a lad of ten and four years. He has no experience in war. His uncles, however, are sly and no cravens. Sansa informs me that Crowfood and Whoresbane have made preparations concerning the defense of Last Hearth in light of its location. The women and children have all been sent down the Kingsroad to Winterfell.”

“Only a small cohort of Umber men remain at the castle. When the dead approach, the Umbers will engage and try to lure as many of them as possible into the interior of the castle. Ned’s uncles have prepared Last Hearth to act as a kiln. They’ll light it on fire before retreating back to Winterfell.”

“Burn down the castle?” Tyrion asked, shocked. “Why on earth do that? Just have the Umbers retreat back to Winterfell if there is no intention of mounting a defense. Seems foolish.”

Jon stood up straight from the table and look at Tyrion.

“Fire is the most plentiful weapon we have against the dead,” Jon said authoritatively. “When a fire dies it doesn’t rise up again and join the Night King’s army at his whim. Fire is just fire. Sacrificing the castle without fully committing a force of breathing, living soldiers, allows us to weaken, and hopefully delay, the Night King without risking too much in terms of men becoming raised from the dead. It might give us more time.”

Tyrion grimaced at Jon’s response. Dany could tell that her Hand sensed some wisdom from the young northerner and, given how repeatedly humiliated he had been during the early days of her invasion, was reluctant to challenge Jon.

“That assumes that Last Hearth can be defended against a dragon, Jon. None of our strategies that we’d discussed en route accounted for it,” Jorah coolly observed. “The Night King and his dragon could fly in, melt the castle from the sky, and kill the Umbers during their retreat. We are not prepared to fight against a dragon. If it is strong enough to bring down the Wall, I fear we might all be lost regardless of what we do.”

Jon nodded.

“Aye, it is a risk, Ser Jorah, but we must be willing to risk everything in this war. The lives of all the living depend on us. We thought we’d be able to use the Wall to our advantage. We thought we might have more time. We don’t and whatever time we can buy will be purchased at great cost.”

The group stood silently for a few moments. Tyrion took a long draught of wine from a chalice and broke the silence with a muffled burp.

Dany had listened and observed her advisors, contemplating their concerns and Jon’s assessment of their current position. It all sounded quite dire. She leaned forward and looked at the map intently.

“Viserion,” she began. “Viserion is the Night King’s dragon. I am sure of it . . . as are all of you.” She stopped and looked around the room. “No one bears more responsibility for his death than I. I was his mother and I brought him beyond the Wall to fight an enemy I didn’t fully believe in, understand, or fear. He was not prepared for it. I was not prepared for it.”

Dany leaned back and drew herself up to her full height, diminutive though she was.

“A dragon fighting on behalf of the dead is not what any of us had expected. Daunting though it may be, do we have any reason to believe that he is any more dangerous than one of the Night King’s White Walkers or any other creature that has been raised from the dead?”

“Your Grace, the dragon _did_ bring the Wall down,” Tyrion interjected.

“True, but we do not know whether the Night King had some other way past it anyway. The dragon is still dead, most likely animated only by the Night King’s power. Have we any reason to believe that the dragon is not vulnerable to dragonglass or valyrian steel? What of fire? Could fire stop a _wight_ dragon just as it would any other of the Night King’s foot soldiers?”

Her advisors stirred but did not answer.

“Dragonglass kills White Walkers and wights, yes?” she asked, turning to face Jon.

Jon nodded in response.

“Fire kills wights, correct?”

Another nod.

Tyrion shifted slightly. “So to kill the Night King’s dragon we need only pierce his hide with dragonglass or valyrian steel.” He paused and looked right at Jon. “Good luck getting close enough to him to swing your magic sword at it, Jon.”

“Or to even blast it with fire,” Jorah remarked, cutting in.

Jon turned from Jorah to look directly at Dany.

“My friend and brother of the Night’s Watch, Samwell Tarly, killed a White Walker beyond the Wall,” Jon observed. “Sam drove a dragonglass dagger into the Walker’s shoulder and then it shattered into a thousand pieces, melting away. Only the dagger remained when all was told. Sam told me that he didn’t even strike hard or true against the Walker but that the small wound he inflicted had been enough to destroy it.”

Dany looked from Jon back to Tyrion.

“Your brother’s army shot Drogon in the shoulder with a scorpion bolt on the shores of the Blackwater Rush. The bolt pierced his hide and scales. A bit further to the left and it would have gone right through Drogon’s skull, killing us both. My ancestor, Rhaenys Targaryen, was shot out of the sky atop Meraxes at Hellholt. During the Dance of Dragons many dragons were killed in myriad ways. Is there any reason why a bolt tipped with dragonglass could not destroy Viserion?”

Tyrion opened his mouth as if intending to answer in the negative. He closed it quickly unable to respond.

Dany turned back to Jon.

“Dragons are fire made flesh but Viserion is changed now. He is no true dragon. Perhaps fire can destroy him just like any other wight controlled by the Night King. Perhaps not. If he is vulnerable to fire, then a blast from either Drogon or Rhaegal will end him and the threat he poses. A fireball cast from a catapult or arrows shot by our bowmen could do the job. However, if fire has no effect on him, then I ask again, is there any reason that we know of why he would not still be vulnerable to dragonglass or valyrian steel?”

Jon shook his head. “No, your Grace.”

“Neither do I,” Dany responded. “Send a raven to Winterfell. Not only should the dragonglass you mined from Dragonstone be used to forge daggers, knives, swords, and arrowheads but it should also be used to create scorpion bolts or other weapons that could be used to kill the dragon. If your men have not done so already, they must immediately start construction of scorpions, ballistae, and other weapons capable of attacking a dragon with proper arms. When the Night King comes, we must not miss any opportunity that presents itself to kill Viserion once and for all."

Her councillors mumbled a response.

"What else is there to discuss?” she asked.

Dany’s war council discussed other plans for the defense of the north as hurriedly as they could. The hour was late and there were still many leagues to travel before arriving at Winterfell. The entire group was exhausted but pressed forward with making additional plans for the North’s defense. Tyrion offered many suggestions with respect to how the Lannister army, ostensibly led by his brother Ser Jaime, could be best used upon arriving at Winterfell. Other plans were made concerning the smallfolk and sending as many of them as possible south of Winterfell, along with adequate supplies for them.

After approximately an additional hour of strategizing about how and when the living would engage the dead, Dany excused herself along with Missandei. A light snow started falling as the two of them walked back to her tent.

As Missandei prepared a warm bath for her queen, Dany sat down on her cot to remove her boots. After doing so she rubbed her calves, which ached from her hiking through winter drifts. Her entire body ached as well from riding Drogon through the stiff northern winds. Yet, her mind was clear and determined. She had overcome so much to be in the position where she found herself in Westeros. She had defeated all of her enemies. They had died screaming just as she had promised those Dothraki who stayed loyal to her following Drogo's death. Her dreams and visions had come true. That she now had to face her worst fear of fighting one of her own children she remained undaunted and determined.

Dany knew that she had failed her child. She had failed herself. Her grief only highlighted in her the desire to ensure that her child was allowed, finally, to rest. It was her responsibility to make sure that it happened. It was her responsibility to honor him as a tragic casualty in the war against the dead. And Dany had never been more determined to ensure that destiny still shone favorably upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this took a while to pull together. I got really sick and then work hammered me with some unwelcome surprises. My apologies for how long it took to get this up. And, tbh, it was a struggle to write given my condition and I do admit that it shows in the product that I've published. I will most likely go back and revise later on to improve it.


	5. The Lady of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares for the arrival of House Targaryen, its armies, and her brother.

Sansa had not yet gotten used to residing in the lord’s chamber at Winterfell. It felt odd to sleep and dress in the same room where, as a child, she would sit on her parents’ bed and discuss the happenings of her day. Her mother was always interested in her needlework and her education. Her father would humor her and show interest in her accomplishments but rarely offered her the kind of encouragement that she craved. For Sansa to have taken up residence in the finest chamber in the entire castle had been a strange moment for her.

She had some of the servants at Winterfell scour the room for floor to ceiling before spending a single night in the room. Jon had some of his men prepare the room for her and they had made a valiant effort but they approached the task with a soldier’s eye. The men assigned to the task were exhausted and cold. They went about the task appreciating only that it wasn’t building defenses outside in the harsh winter winds. The two men had merely moved things about after removing all of the Bolton accoutrements that Roose Bolton and his Frey wife had moved into the room. They had paid no attention to the cleansing of the room. When their task was done the room stood barren but for the fire place and the narrow windows with their plain shutters.

That was when Sansa took over the task of overseeing the room’s preparation. Jon and Sansa had searched Winterfell’s storage rooms for any remaining furniture or heirlooms left intact following the sack of Winterfell and its subsequent reconstruction under the watchful eye of Lord Roose Bolton. Much of Winterfell’s mystique lay in the fact that every corner of every room proclaimed that this was the seat of House Stark, one of the great houses tracing its roots back to the First Men. Direwolves adorned braziers, doorknobs, sconces, and keystones throughout the immense castle. When the castle had burned after being taken by the Ironborn much of what symbolized House Stark had been desecrated and destroyed by Theon’s men and then the Boltons when they put the castle to the flame.

Sansa had discovered certain areas of the Winterfell cellars and stores that had been cordoned off by individuals who had kept faith to her house and family. They had scurried away furniture, banners, tapestries, and other Stark heraldry into these secret coves. The men and women of Winterfell and of the North remembered House Stark and had taken risks to preserve its symbols and treasures. Much had been lost, but what Sansa and Jon had found had been treated with care and fondness for what they represented.

Jon had claimed none of the Stark heraldry for his own but had instead turned it all over to Sansa to do with as she pleased. Though she had matured and changed during her time in the south she still enjoyed feminine pursuits and enjoyed redecorating the castle with what little original items they had found. She had also put several men to the task for creating new items, emblazoned with the Stark sigil, to reestablish Winterfell as the Stark’s home. Sansa had even located two stonemasons who she set to the task of repairing and carving new direwolves to be placed at the entrance to the Winterfell crypts. The Boltons, in an act of great sacrilege, had defaced the erstwhile crypt guardians by decapitating them. Sansa felt deeply that such a wound should be rectified as soon as possible.

Sansa chose to wear the dress that she had sewn during her sojourn at Castle Black several months ago and which she wore the day House Stark reclaimed Winterfell. She wanted her confidence to be at its apex. If she were to enter battle she would require her armor and this particular dress was closest thing she owned to a suit of full plate. She needed there to be no question where her loyalties lay and in her mind nothing proclaimed her fierce loyalty to the North than the Stark direwolf proudly displayed across the top of her dress. Today, of all days, she needed to be known as the head of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. Jon may have been King in the North once but she was now the family’s head—Eddard Stark’s heir now that Bran had abdicated his rights. She was the Stark in Winterfell and how she handled events this day could determine the future of Westeros.

The winter weather had cleared four evenings prior. Daytime experienced bright sunshine though it remained bitter cold in the North. It had not snowed for three days and all of Winterfell had been grateful for the respite. Lord Royce’s men were able to clear out the courtyards and to set up several pavilions where smithys worked through the night to construct additional weaponry—weaponry that Jon had specifically requested be built.

There were capable smiths at Winterfell, many of them coming from the other houses sworn to House Stark. Mikken had been killed when the Ironborn had seized Winterfell along with poor, sweet Ser Rodrick and his odd facial hair. There were few men left with the skills or knowledge of an experienced smith such as Mikken. However, a young lad named Gendry had arrived from the Wall several weeks ago. He displayed remarkable aptitude with the hammer and tongs. He had also been quick to adapt and forge the dragonglass that had arrived from Dragonstone into a variety of armaments and had attempt to inlay the glass into fresh forged gauntlets, greaves, and helms.

Sansa received Jon’s raven informing her of his imminent arrival the day before yesterday. Thanks to her skilled outriders, she also knew that a large force of Dothraki and Unsullied marched along the Kingsroad toward Winterfell, likely alongside Jon and Daenerys Targaryen.

 _Soon we shall have a Targaryen in Winterfell. A true Targaryen in Winterfell_ , Sansa thought to herself in near disbelief. Her thought was immediately follow by another one: _Jon had been a Targaryen in Winterfell for most of his life but he’s more Stark than any of father’s children. Jon is only a Targaryen by blood. His heart—his soul—is of the North._

Sansa recalled from her lessons with Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin that the last time a full-blooded Targaryen had come North with a significant force had been during the reign of Jaehaerys I. King Jaehaerys had visited the North only twice but both made a lasting impression on the northerners. The first time the king visited had been with his sister-wife, Good Queen Alysanne, six dragons, and half the royal court. The second had been to stamp out a wilding invasion, which he accomplished by flying north on the back of his immense dragon, named Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. That had been centuries ago. This time Sansa would play host to a resurgent House Targaryen and one whose leader was determined to reconquer Westeros and seize the Iron Throne along with all that it represented.

Sansa finished getting dressed, fastened her silver fur cloak at her neck and strode out of her room toward the Winterfell courtyard.

“Well, shall we?” Sansa asked the sleeping white direwolf near the hearth as she exited the room.

Ghost, who had been lying on the floor near the fireplace, raised his head and stood up on all fours. He stood nearly as tall as Sansa, his large red eyes silently surveying the room. Sansa smiled at him muttered a few words of encouragement. As she exited her room, Ghost padded along behind her making no sound at all.

The last time Winterfell hosted a royal, other than Jon, had been when Robert Baratheon came north to ask her father to serve as Hand of the King. That trip spelled doom for House Stark. There had been feasting and merriment during the royal visit and Sansa had been spellbound by the knights and Joffrey, her golden prince. Yet it had all been a façade for the canker that lay beneath the royal retinue.

 _I was so foolish then_ , she thought to herself as she walked through the Great Hall of Winterfell. Servants bustled about making the castle ready. She had delegated many tasks to Maester Wolkan in terms of refurbishing rooms that the Boltons had not repaired after taking up residence in the castle. Winterfell had always been a refuge to the north during winter but it would now play host to the largest military force in Westeros. Sansa spotted Maester Wolkan at the far end of the hall speaking with a number of craftsmen about the task. She stopped nearby.

“My lady,” the burly Maester said, bowing his head and warily eyeing Ghost.

“How go things this morning?” she asked.

“Things are proceeding as best as can be expected, my lady. Though his lordship’s message did place a specter of urgency over the whole affair of readying the castle for his and Queen Daenerys’s arrival, there is likely not enough time to accomplish everything that would be preferred. Many of the rooms that were destroyed when the Ironborn fled the castle are being outfitted as best we can. But it’s a far cry from what it once was, I daresay.”

 _His lordship_ , Sansa thought. _Wolkan knew about Jon’s bending the knee to House Targaryen. Perhaps I have erred by keeping that information to myself, Arya, Bran, and the maester. Perhaps…_

“As long as we have even modest comforts for the queen and her retinue, I am sure they won’t protest too much. We are offering them shelter and food. Given the depth of the snows outside Winterfell they would be hard pressed to survive even a few weeks in the north without us.”

“As you say, my lady. We have attempted to clear as many locations as possible in and around winter town for the Targaryen forces but it is surely inadequate. They will have to make due themselves once they arrive.” Wolkan reached inside his robes an removed a large scroll whose seal had been broken.

He handed it to Sansa, who inspected the broken seal of House Reed.

“A rider also arrived not long ago with word from Greywater Watch. Lord Reed also rides for Winterfell at your request. Lord Reed and his crannogmen are presently making their way up the Kingsroad.”

Sansa read the scroll.

“Lord Reed has called his banners,” she said without looking up. “He has left a strong force of his House’s men to patrol the Neck; he has dispatched 250 bowmen to Moat Cailin from Houses Fenn and Greengood.” She smiled at the next part and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It appears that we shall have more guests from Greywater Watch, Maester. Lord Reed writes that all remaining houses sworn to House Reed, including Blackmyre, Boggs, and Cray, march for Winterfell. Lord Reed does not give a count of how many men are accompanying him.”

“No, my lady, he does not.”

“Well,” she said, handing the scroll back to Wolkan, “ensure that a room is set aside for Lord Reed in the Great Keep. He was one of my father’s closest and most loyal bannermen. We must pay him the proper respect. On the day of his arrival be sure to place his seat next to mine during the meals.”

“Of course, my lady.” Wolkan bowed his head again and walked toward another group of servants readying the Great Hall. Sansa watched the Maester go and she felt a sharp pang of regret at the absence of Maester Luwin. Wolkan seemed like a good man but he had been the Boltons’ maester long before he had come to Winterfell. Though she sensed that he felt no regret at the downfall of House Bolton she could not shake a feeling that he needed to be carefully watched nevertheless.

Exhaling, Sansa and Ghost walked outside along the battlements of Winterfell. The castle had been in a constant state of preparation and an air of tension hung over everything that happened within its walls. From the outer curtain wall Sana spied Lord Royce as stalked through one of Winterfell’s many courtyards, snapping orders at the Knights of the Vale and the northmen. She had placed Lord Royce in command of Winterfell’s garrison and also in charge of preparing the castle’s defense in order to secure the Vale’s further support in defending the north. Sansa’s position with the Vale Knights, at least to her, felt tenuous. She could not risk the Knights of the Vale riding back to their homes at Runestone, Gullwater, or Longbow Hall. Her vapid cousin, Robin, could easily have recalled the Knights of the Vale at any time and without Petyr pulling the strings, she could not be certain what the stupid boy might do.

The entire realm needed the Knights of the Vale in the North and that meant she had to give Lord Royce a purpose and make him feel important. So she placated him and requested that he take charge of the North’s defense in her brother’s absence. She knew that he was not a true warrior, a tourney knight at best, but he was the closest thing that Sansa had to a military strategist within the walls of Winterfell. Needless to say, the Lord of Runestone readily agreed to Sansa’s request, though it was not without objection from some of the northern lords.

Sansa’s spent the remainder of her morning inspecting the kitchens, the scullery, the forges, and inspecting all of winter town. The snows that had already fallen had drifted to several meters in height which nearly buried the buildings in the town. Just walking through the town Sansa could tell that it was close to capacity. It was full of families, orphans, cripples, and other broken things that had sought shelter in the shadow of Winterfell. Sansa knew that this was how it always was during winter.

 _The weak seek out the strong for protection_ , her father had told her. _When faced with danger it is our duty to be ready, for Winter is Coming._

Her afternoon was spent sitting in her solar, reading and responding to ravens sent from all over the seven kingdoms. She had Maester Wolkan and Samwell Tarly write to the storm lords and to the prominent houses in Dorne asking for their aid. The responses she had received from those houses were tepid at best and were likely sent solely because she was the head of one of the great houses of Westeros. None swore to march north.

The last raven’s scroll Sansa reviewed had come not from the Storm lands or Dorne but from the Acorn Hall in the Riverlands. Sansa had written to a few of the smaller houses that had sworn loyalty to House Tully. Lady Ravella Smallwood had replied to her indicating that she would send twenty men of her household guard to Winterfell. Sansa knew from her experience with Lyanna Mormont that such a contribution from smaller houses was a considerable sacrifice and that it could severely compromise the safety of the house’s family, especially given the proximity to the Lannister forces. If they survived the coming fight with the dead she would have to reward House Smallwood in some meaningful way for its actions.

As Sansa put down Lady Ravella’s scroll her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp blast from the sentries posted at Winterfell’s east gate which was followed by indecipherable yelling. Sansa knew what the horn blast meant. She stood quickly and walked  to the window where she could see the head of what appeared to be a long wagon train. The shouting outside Winterfell’s Great Keep continued as Sansa swept her way out of the room toward the stairs. Someone had arrived.

She walked briskly out of the doors of the Winterfell Great Keep and exited into the southern Inner Ward of the castle. She saw Lord Royce walking toward her.

“My lady,” he said when he arrived where she was standing.

“Lord Royce. Walk with me, please,” she responded. The two of them exited through the western gate of the Inner Ward into Winterfell’s large courtyard which housed Winterfell’s library, armory, smithy, and kitchens.

“Who is it,” she asked as they walked along the snow packed paths toward the northernmost gate of the courtyard.

“It appears to be his grace, your brother, my lady. Our sentries spotted Stark banners alongside the three headed dragon of House Targaryen,” Royce commented. Sansa could sense some derision tinge his voice at the last bit.

 _Jon is finally home_ , Sansa thought, full of relief. She had managed as best she could, ruling the North in his name. She understood administrative matters relatively well but she needed him to help with the military requirements of preparing the north.

“Other than a single Manderly banner, there does not appear to be any other Westerosi heraldry in the vanguard that approaches the Winter Town, my lady. His grace has brought Dothraki and Unsullied north. Never in my life would I have thought to see the day.” Royce’s voice trailed off as Sansa walked boldly through one of the interior gates and into the courtyard that Jon would enter Winterfell.

“Thank you, Lord Royce. Please see to your men,” Sansa commanded. Royce nodded to Sansa and marched off back through the gate toward the Great Hall.

The last time a royal had come to Winterfell, other than Jon, had been one of the most fateful events of Sansa’s young life. Robert Baratheon, his leathers barely containing his girth, had rode into the gates of Winterfell to name her father Hand of the King. He had brought half of the royal court with him that day and Sansa had been entranced by the gallant Jaime Lannister, the beautiful prince Joffrey, and the regal Queen Cersei. The entirety of House Stark had come out to greet the king and his court that day.

This time, however, now that Bran no longer considered himself a Stark, Sansa stood alone as the Stark in Winterfell.

“Open the gates for the king!” she heard a guard yell from the battlement. Several Stark men rushed forward to the main gate and slowly pulled it open. Through the gate Sansa could see Jon riding at the head of an extremely large cohort of riders, the fur cloak she had fashioned for him at Castle Black draped around his shoulders. To his left rode a woman who was unmistakably Daenerys Targaryen, clad in a striking white fur coat, a silver chain slung over her right shoulder.

Jon and Daenerys rode through the main gate of Winterfell together, followed by a whole host of men and women, most of whom bore the sigil of House Targaryen. Sansa made eye contact with Jon and they smiled at each other in acknowledgement. She saw the snow dusted Dothraki ride expertly alongside the Dragon Queen, impressed by their exotic appearance, dark eyes, and olive colored skin.

Jon pulled the reigns of his horse and came to a stop just a few meters away from Sansa. He dismounted and walked swiftly to Sansa, embracing her.

“Welcome home,” she said as they separated.

“Thank you. It’s good to be home. Too warm in the south,” Jon mumbled.

Sansa took a moment to appraise her brother. Jon seemed older to her but there was something in his grey eyes that hinted at something different. Perhaps Sansa merely saw him with new eyes now that she knew he was the true heir to the Targaryen throne. But there was no question that to Sansa, Jon carried himself with more vigor and confidence than he had at any point since their reunion at Castle Black many months before.

“You look well,” she remarked. She scanned the growing crowd in the Winterfell courtyard. “It appears you found great success during your travels.”

“Aye, I did . . . but not without cost.” Sansa watched as Jon stole a look back toward Daenerys.

Behind them Daenerys dismounted from her grey destrier. In the brief glimpses Sansa had been afforded she could tell that Daenerys did not ride a horse like a lady, as Sansa had been taught. Daenerys rode as a conqueror, as if the mount was merely an extension of her body and will. She rode like a warrior and with her dismount, Daenerys displayed an athletic adroitness that escaped most women who sat ahorse. Sansa watched as Daenerys approached her and Jon.

Jon inhaled as Daenerys stopped next to him.

“Sansa,” Jon said stepping back slightly to introduce Daenerys. “This is Daenerys of House Targaryen, to whom I have pledged the North’s support in the wars to come.”

Sansa appraised the diminutive valyrian before offering a slight bow. Sansa had always been considered a beauty. She favored her mother in all of the best ways a daughter could favor the appearance of her forbearers. Yet Sansa immediately felt quite plain merely from standing in the presence of the Targaryen queen.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Sansa remarked, leaving off the ‘your grace’ intentionally, as she stood herself up to her full height.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys replied, clasping her gloved hands in front of her waist. “I have heard so much about you from your brother. He praised your competence in administrative matters and expressed confidence that upon his return to the North that he would find it ready.” Daenerys looked around the courtyard, taking in the physical manifestations of Sansa’s hard work during the past several months.

“It appears that his high praise of you was entirely warranted.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replied, a small smile itching at the corners of her mouth. Jon never handed out praise that was unmerited. “The North stands ready and we are grateful that House Targaryen has come to aid us in the Great War.”

Daenerys looked intently at Sansa for a moment, her amethyst eyes penetrating Sansa’s green ones. The Dragon Queen took a step forward.

“And do you, Lady Stark, know the price your brother paid so that House Targaryen and its armies would be here today, standing in the North, having abandoned its ancient seat at Dragonstone?” she asked.

Sansa raised her chin slightly, forcing her eyes to look down toward Daenerys.

“I am aware that he has pledged our support to you in the wars to come,” she responded.

“That’s true. He has surrendered the northern crown, having bent the knee to me, the ruler of House Targaryen as his ancestor, Torrhen Stark, did to my forbearer, Aegon Targaryen.”

The hint of the smile that had played for the briefest of moments disappeared from Sansa’s mouth. She had expected that Daenerys would assert her regency swiftly upon her arrival but this had taken her somewhat by surprise.

“I am aware of my brother’s actions,” she paused, “Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

 _But do you, your grace, know who it truly is who swore fealty to House Targaryen_ , was what she had wanted to say.

Daenerys acknowledged Sansa’s recognition of her as “your grace” with a slight nod. She smiled at her and half-turned back toward Jon, whose face bore an expression of pure male befuddlement. Daenerys spoke rapidly in Dothraki and high valyrian to two of her retainers, one Unsullied and one Dothraki, both of whom acknowledged her and then rode off back toward the eastern gate of Winterfell.

“My lady, Sansa,” she heard a familiar voice call from behind Jon and Daenerys. The two of them parted as Tyrion stepped forward. “It has been too long.”

“Tyrion,” she muttered weakly. She knew that he would accompany Daenerys; he was her Hand, after all. Yet, she had not planned on how she would feel seeing the man who had risked quite a bit for her safety and security during a time when she was most vulnerable.

The last time she had seen him was in the flurry of activity during Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding years before in King’s Landing. She had heard whispers about the misery that befell her former husband after the death of the king. His imprisonment, trial, and subsequent flight to Essos had become legendary among the smallfolk that Sansa had the opportunity to engage with in both the Vale and Winterfell.

Tyrion smiled ruefully at her and splayed his hands out in a disarming gesture.

“I haven’t come to claim my dowry, Sansa. You needn’t worry about that. As far as I am concerned our marriage never truly began though I do vaguely recall a nice feast with plenty of wine.”

“I remember it too. You are most welcome at Winterfell, Lord Tyrion.”

“Lord Tyrion? I daresay that after killing my father and turning against my family that I am lord of little to nothing. I merely serve my Queen.”

“There will be time later for reminiscing about old times if you like,” Jon interjected. “Sansa, where’s Bran? I would like to speak with him before we meet to discuss the state of the North.”

Sansa turned to her brother. A heavy weight settled into the pit of her stomach. She could tell that Jon anticipated a joyful reunion with Bran but he also could not be ready for what he would encounter or hear.

“Bran is in the godswood, Jon. He spends most of his time there nowadays,” Sansa responded soberly.

Jon nodded.

“Jon, you must be prepared before you go to see him,” Sansa continued, reaching out and taking hold of Jon’s arm. “He has changed—more than just getting older. Going beyond the Wall has made him different and if you listen to him, he will say that he is no longer truly Brandon Stark.”

Jon considered Sansa’s words for a brief moment and nodded again. Sansa could tell that Jon either did not understand what she had just told him or that he did not want to believe that she was serious. Jon lifted his gaze to the sky.

“Aye. Arya told me as much on the road north. She was unclear about the details of what it means for him to be a Three Eyed Raven.” Jon lowered his eyes and looked back at Sansa.

“He has visions, Jon, “Sansa explained. “He can see through time into the past and he can see other places in the present. I have tried to get him to explain how or why this happened to him but he speaks in riddles and in terms that are deeply strange. I only tell you this because you must be ready when you see him.”

“Hmmm,” Jon agreed. “All right then. I will just have to see for myself.”

He turned to Daenerys and Sansa could see their eyes lock. An unspoken exchange occurred between Jon and Daenerys; the emotional tension between them was palpable.

 _They’re in love,_ she immediately thought. _Oh gods…_

Before her thoughts could form into anything coherent a loud shriek echoed throughout the courtyard. A rushing wind swept through the castle blowing snow into the air. Sansa lifted her eyes to the sky as a large shadow passed over Winterfell, the shadow of a great black dragon. Sansa stumbled backward as Drogon buzzed Winterfell’s towers and flew past the castle further north. Rhaegal followed his brother, though he did not fly nearly as close as Drogon had done.

Stunned, Sansa looked at Daenerys, who merely looked upward with pride, a pleasant smile on her face. The entire castle watched as these creatures of legend circled around and patrolled the sky high above Winterfell.

“They’re…they’re real,” Sansa stammered in near disbelief.

“Aye, they’re real,” Jon responded.

“They will likely nest in the wolfswood north of Winterfell. Lady Stark, please inform your men to steer clear of them once they choose their berth,” Daenerys said quickly. “We don’t want anything untoward to happen.”

Sansa only nodded a response.

“Now then,” Daenerys continued, “if you’d please lead the way, I’d like to meet your brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, life can come at you fast and I apologize for the significant delay in getting this chapter up. I'll do my best to update on the regular from here on out.


	6. The Godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys meet with the Three Eyed Raven at Winterfell.

The introductions in the courtyard had neither afforded Jon relief nor heightened his concerns about bringing Daenerys to the North. Jon was just glad the initial interaction with Sansa had finished without bloodshed or immolation. Sansa had been gracious but stoic as the Lady of Winterfell; Daenerys, on the other hand, carried herself with regal dignity and assertiveness that Jon had become accustomed to in the past days and weeks. Jon knew that relations between the North and House Targaryen would remain chilled but he hoped that their common enemy would provide a strong, common purpose.

The snow crunched loudly beneath the boots of Jon, Daenerys, and Sansa as they walked through Winterfell’s snow laden courtyard past the library tower toward the godswood. Jon could not help but be amazed at where he found himself.

Before, when he was being raised as Winterfell’s bastard, he had felt unwelcome and disdained by his father’s family. Lady Catelyn had done her best to shun him, displaying cruelty to him when out of ear or eyeshot of Lord Eddard. Jon understood why she had been so callous toward him: Jon posed a threat to Robb if Eddard ever obtained Jon’s legitimization. And Catelyn knew that had Eddard asked Robert for it such a request would have been granted.

None of the melancholic memories mattered any longer to Jon. Right then and there Jon walked alongside the woman he loved. That woman was a queen and the head of a great, ancient house and considered Jon to be her equal. The lords of the North considered him to be a common head of House Stark alongside Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell. The Northern Lords had acclaimed Jon King in the North, the same title they had given to Robb several years prior during the War of the Five Kings. Jon knew, however, that he owed everything he now possessed to his sister.

When Jon rose from the dead at Castle Black his mind had been clouded by a disorienting haze and confusion. His spirit had been utterly broken as he lay naked upon the table of his rebirth. As Davos and Melisandre tried to piece his mind and soul together during the aftermath of his resurrection, a deep sense of loss and aimlessness invaded Jon’s heart and mind. Jon’s entire identity had been bound up in the Night’s Watch from the moment he chose to stay at the Wall following Robb’s calling of the banners. Jon had chosen to fully commit to the Watch, body and soul. To have been betrayed by his own sworn brothers, his chosen family, completely shattered his world.

Jon bore permanent reminders of his sworn brothers’ treachery. The scars left from the dagger strikes may have closed but they had never truly healed. Even at that moment, as Jon walked among the living, his chest felt hollowed out and his heartbeat was tinged by pain, a perisistent burning, a constant reminder that Jon should have been dead.

It had been Sansa who, in the aftermath of his murder, had grounded him in a newfound purpose. She represented his old life—his old family—before the Wall. Her arrival at the castle imbued Jon with a renewed purpose and commitment to House Stark. Jon had resigned himself to life as a wanderer, a rogue warrior roaming Essos. Sansa, however, convinced him that in order for her to truly be safe they needed to retake Winterfell. Tired, Jon chose to renew his old familial bonds and to leave life at the Wall behind. Sansa, the one Stark child who had looked most like Lady Catelyn and who had treated with disdain just like her mother, had been the one to bring him back into the family with open, grateful arms.

Without Sansa, Jon would never have been acclaimed King in the North. Without her, the Boltons would still sit in Winterfell. Without Sansa, Jon might have wandered the land forever or, perhaps, he’d be lying dead in a ditch. Without Sansa, Jon would never have been in a position to have been summoned to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys. Without Sansa, he would have remained alone.

Daenerys, on the other hand, had renewed Jon’s sense of hope. Sansa grounded Jon in family; Daenerys caused Jon to believe that the impossible could happen. She made him believe that the fight against the dead was not a lost cause. Daenerys was everything that Jon sought himself to become.

The trio of figures walked through the gateway separating Winterfell’s largest courtyard from its godswood. The air’s fragrance changed the instant they crossed the threshold into the castle’s most hallowed grounds. Winterfell’s godswood had always felt old to Jon, laced with history and solemnity. While at Dragonstone, Jon would occasionally feel pangs of homesickness to come back to the godswood’s familiar confines and to commune with those who had passed before him. He had been grieved to see that Dragonstone’s godswood had been burned to the ground by its prior occupant.

 _The Old Gods live here_ , he thought as he walked alongside Daenerys and Sansa deeper into the wood’s interior.

The godswood’s trees had lost the majority of their foliage due to the winter climate. The wood’s usually dense canopy had thinned due to the hostile cold, allowing shafts of cold winter light through, illuminating the forest basin. A wide variety of northern trees formed Winterfell’s godswood: ash, chestnut, hawthorn, ironwood, oaks, sentinel, and soldier pine were among the many varieties growing therein. The large weirwood, the godswood’s heart tree, dominated the innermost sanctum of the godswood, lording over a perpetually warm pool of black water. Jon felt peace for the first time in ages as he traversed these grounds in the presence of his family.

Heavy drifts of snow covered the godswood’s moss and humus floor. The snow fall dampened the group’s footfalls as they trod the path to the heart tree. The twirling songs of the snow shrikes who nested throughout the wood broke the complete silence that hung over the party as they walked, offering comfort to those with ears to hear their winter song.

 _This place truly is my home_ , Jon thought to himself. _I am home_.

Jon had many pleasant memories of finding his father in this place, sitting at the base of the heart tree pondering and ruminating over a lord’s concerns besetting Winterfell. Lord Eddard had always been kind to Jon notwithstanding Lady Stark hostility. Eddard treated Jon as if he were a trueborn son and not a bastard born of woman whom he never named or spoke of. Jon believed that his father loved him the same as his other trueborn children but deep down he knew that could not be the case. His very existence stained his father’s honor regardless of how kindly Lord Eddard treated him. Every time Jon would catch his father watching him train with Ser Rodrick or ride with Robb, he could see sadness and regret etched heavily in the lines on his lord father’s face. Knowing that he brought such intense feelings to his father’s heart had always been a heavy burden to Jon.

 _The next time we see each other we’ll talk about your mother_ , _hmmm? I promise_.

Those had been the last words Eddard said to Jon. They had both gone their separate ways, one south and one north, each to their respective deaths. As had been usual when Eddard spoke with him, Eddard’s face had been heavy with remorse during their conversation on the crossroad outside of Winterfell. Jon sensed Eddard’s melancholy underlying each word. He had never before heard him discuss his mother with such emotion. Before, whenever someone inadvisedly broached the topic of Jon’s mother, Lord Eddard had silenced each interlocutor with a firm, cold rebuke.

The group rounded a corner of the godswood’s path and the black pond framed by the white weirwood came into view. Unlike its deciduous brothers, the weirwood retained its foliage and appeared as it would during the heart of summer. Its leaves were dusted with snow, much of it melting from the warmth emanating from the hot spring fueled pools. Jon could see two people sitting at the base of the weirwood. One was a large, rotund man dressed all in black whereas the other man, a boy really, sat reclined in a wheeled chair, his legs covered in furs. The large man stood up at the sound of the approaching group and walked toward them. As they approached Jon noticed the large white direwolf resting quietly by the heart tree.

“Oi, Ghost!” Jon exclaimed at seeing the beast. Ghost raised his head sleepily at hearing Jon’s voice. His ruby colored eyes stared at Jon for a moment and then he rose up on his haunches, stretched, and then padded toward Jon.

Jon hardly had to stoop down to greet Ghost he had grown so much in the past few months. He rubbed the scruff of the direwolf’s neck and whispered words of greeting to the animal. Jon regretted not bringing Ghost with him to the South or even beyond the Wall but he had worried too much about Sansa’s safety and had decided to leave him in Winterfell to watch over her.

“Sam,” Jon said turning to his friend standing nearby. Samwell Tarly smiled at his friend and the two of them embraced.

“Hello, Jon,” Sam said, pulling back from the brotherly hug. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you.”

“And you. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Oldtown studying to become a maester?” Jon asked quickly.

“I was there, as you know, but the Long Night has arrived and the maesters, well, they fail to appreciate the exigencies of our situation. It was disappointing, really,” Sam responded, shaking his head.

“Is Gilly here with little Sam, then?”

“Gilly? Oh yes, they’re both here. I couldn’t leave them at Horn Hill as I had intended with my father, though mother and Talla were pleasant enough with them. They came with me to Oldtown and then we all left together to come here. Lady Sansa has been most kind to them.”

Sam nodded at Sansa, who smiled appreciatively. Sam turned his attention back to Jon and eyed him warily. Jon could tell that Sam was hesitating and holding back more things to say.

“What, Sam? What is it? You can ask,” Jon told him.

Sam shifted around on his feet, clearly uncomfortable.

“I heard about what Thorne and the others did to you, Jon. Our own brothers turning on their Lord Commander. I . . . I’m just sorry that I wasn’t there to help you when you needed friends,” Sam muttered.

“Sam—you were precisely where I needed you to be. Had you been at Castle Black when Thorne made his move you, Gilly, and little Sam would have been on a funeral pyre.”

“But . . . but how are you here, Jon? I don’t understand. You died and now you’re alive?” Sam asked, his eyes meeting and averting Jon’s in rapid succession.

Jon grimaced. He looked back at Daenerys and Sansa who were patiently listening and waiting. He gave a frustrated smile.

“Aye, I’m alive. I don’t know how; I don’t know why. I just know that I’m here.”

Jon paused and turned toward Daenerys.

“Sam, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he said changing the subject and motioning in Daenerys's direction. Daenerys stepped forward and stood by Jon.

Sam knelt quickly in the snow before Daenerys.

“Stand,” she commanded.

Sam struggling a little as he stood up in the snow, his massive weight posing an obstacle for his wobbly knees.

“Samwell Tarly, your Grace,” he said introducing himself.

“Tarly?” Daenerys queried, raising her eyebrows, hinting at surprise.

“Yes, your Grace. I am the firstborn son of Randyll Tarly and Melessa Florent, of Horn Hill. Though, I am now a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch,” Sam answered. Jon noted pride in Sam’s voice as he claimed membership in the Night’s Watch. Pride was something that Sam rarely, if ever, expressed when he spoke of his Tarly heritage.

Daenerys’s face turned serious erasing any trace of surprise at Sam’s disclosure. “I understand that we have you to thank for the discovery of the dragonglass deposits on Dragonstone. Is that right, Samwell Tarly formerly of Horn Hill but now of the Night’s Watch?”

Sam nodded twice in quick succession.

“Yes, your Grace. One reason why Jon sent me to Oldtown was to research how to defeat the army of the dead to find out how they were beaten during the Long Night. That and the Night’s Watch needed a new maester after your great-uncle, Maester Aemon, died.”

“My great uncle, Aemon?” Daenerys said, clearly surprised. Jon saw Daenerys’s eyes widen at the mention of her great-uncle. She turned to Jon with a look of disbelief and incredulity on her face. Jon gave her a weak smile and pathetically averted his gaze.

 _Aemon?!_ _How in the bloody hell could I have forgotten?_ Jon’s mind screamed a fierce repudiation at his stupidity. Not once during his entire time with Daenerys had he thought to bring up the fact that he, Jon Snow, had met another Targaryen and had learned valuable lessons from him.

 “Aemon? Aemon Targaryen was the maester at Castle Black?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, your Grace. Jon didn’t tell you?” Sam answered.

Jon inwardly cringed as his friend sold him out to Daenerys. _You idiot, Sam. You don’t know you’re being an idiot but you are._

“No,” she said, “he did not.” Daenerys’s gaze had not left Jon. Jon look at her and shrugged sheepishly in response.

“Maester Aemon was well respected among the Night’s Watch. He cast the deciding vote in Jon’s favor when there was a choosing after Lord Commander Mormont died north of the Wall. He was one of Jon’s and my closest councilors and mentors. He was a great man,” Sam smiled earnestly at the queen, hopeful that his words of praise about Aemon Targaryen would garner favor and confidence in him.

Daenerys pursed her lips into a flat line, clearly frustrated with Jon at his complete failure to bring up not just his interactions with her relative but also with someone that Jon had held in confidence and respect. Awkward silence hung over the group.

“Jon,” Bran’s voice called from near the heart tree.

Jon looked at Daenerys for a brief moment. She gave him a look indicating that this issue was not resolved between them. Relieved, however, Jon broke his attention off from Daenerys and shifted it to Bran. He walked over to where the boy sat in the wheelchair, heavy furs covering his legs and a thick cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

“Hello, Bran. I’ve missed you brother. It’s good to see you,” Jon said, reaching down to embrace Bran. Jon felt a surge of joy at seeing Bran, who gave Jon the smallest hint of a smile. It had been several long years since they had parted when Bran was still comatose from his fall.

“Is it?” Bran responded. He looked away from Jon returning his gaze to the mournful face carved into the heart tree.

“When I left, I didn’t think you’d survive. But you’ve done more than that. You’ve been north of the Wall and survived there for months. How, Bran? How did you survive?” Jon asked. He crouched down so his eyes were level with his brother’s.

“Through the kindness of others. Hodor. Summer. Osha. Rickon. Jojen. Benjen. And Meera. Meera most of all. They all sacrificed for me. They all protected me, a cripple, when they could have abandoned me to protect themselves. That is how I survived, Jon.”

“What happened to you, Bran? Where did you go beyond the Wall?”

“Such questions don’t matter, Jon. What matters is that I am here now and that I am the three eyed raven. I see things now, Jon,” Bran said as he turned his gaze from the heart tree to Daenerys, who had approached and stood next to Jon, “with a thousand eyes and one.”

Jon considered the cryptic words for a moment before speaking.

“Bran, this is . . .”

“Daenerys Targaryen. I know,” the boy interrupted, as Sam joined the group but Sansa remained further back from them all. “Welcome, your Grace, to the North.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys responded. “What do you mean that you see now with a thousand eyes and one? Those were the infamous words used to describe my ancestor, Brynden Rivers, or Bloodraven as I believe he was called.”

Jon saw Bran hesitate for a moment before starting to formulate an answer. It allowed Sam to intervene.

“Bran is a warg, Jon, like the wildling fellow you knew when you climbed the wall. Orys was his name?” Sam said.

 “Orell,” Jon responded, identifying the wildling who lusted after Ygritte and who had given him some of the scars he bore. “Aye, Orell could warg into an eagle. Gave me this,” Jon said raising his right hand to his scarred face.

“A warg?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes, a warg your grace. Wargs are powerful beings who have the ability to see through animals—to control them while in their minds almost,” Sam responded. “Bran is a warg but he is also something much more: a greenseer. I’ve been reading in the Winterfell library about greenseers and it appears that the ancient power of greenseeing relates back to a time before the First Men and the Children of the Forest. It is an extremely rare gift.”

“Is that how you were able to see the army of the dead marching towards Eastwatch? Through this greensight of yours,” Jon asked his brother.

“Yes, through the eyes of ravens for a time,” Bran placidly responded.

Jon looked at Daenerys for a brief moment wondering what she thought of all this. He knew that her skepticism had been tempered by what she saw north of the Wall and the fact that she stood in possession of two ancient beasts of legend also counterbalanced any disbelief she might have retained.

She looked at Jon for a long moment and then nodded her head. She believed Bran or was at least willing to see where he might lead them. Her confirmation and assent sent a rush of relief through Jon. He had seen too much to discount Bran as a charlatan and he knew that his brother would not intentionally mislead his family.

“All right, Bran. Where is the Night King and his army? Can you see them? Have you seen them?” Jon asked.

“Yes. They approach Last Hearth and will be there within the day.”

 _Last Hearth. Mors and Hothor had best be ready_ , Jon thought.

“But . . . the Night King can sense my presence when I endeavor to watch his movements. He has the power to occlude my sight. Observing the dead’s movements will become more difficult as he draws closer.”

“”Why, Bran?” Sansa asked from her removed position.

“Because I am here with Jon and Daenerys. He has seen Jon twice before: at Hardhome and at the frozen lake north of the Wall. He senses the threat you pose, Jon. He has taken a great interest in you,” Bran took a moment and stared thoughtfully at Jon.

“And you, Daenerys Stormborn,” Bran said looking at her with wide, serious eyes. “He knows that you are born of fire and blood; he sees in you old magic—its power. He craves that power and your children. He seeks to turn them into instruments of perpetual death rather than protectors of life, fire made flesh.”

Bran closed his eyes. Silence hung over the godswood as the group waited, unsure what was happening.

“The Night King senses the collective danger that we three pose to him,” Bran said opening his eyes. “He will take great pains to ensure that we are unable to thwart him when he arrives at Winterfell.”

“He’s coming here, then? Are you sure?” Jon asked, agitation echoing in his voice.

“As I said,” Bran looked at the heart tree once more, “I have seen it.”

Jon grimaced slightly at Bran’s response; he turned to Sansa.

“Sansa?”

His sister stepped forward. “We are as prepared as we can be, Jon. The fires in the castle’s forges have been burning night and day. We have crafted as many dragonglass weapons as we could in the short time that we have had. With the Wall falling it seems that we will soon be out of time. We will have to stand with what we have.”

Jon nodded and turned toward Daenerys. Her face bore an indecipherable expression that Jon had not seen since his first audience with her on Dragonstone. He turned from her back to his brother and knelt in the snow before Bran. He reached out with his hands and grabbed the chair’s handles and looked straight into the Three Eyed Raven’s eyes.

“Bran, is there anything else? Have you seen anything else that we need to know to fight the Night King and the army of the dead?”

Bran did not respond to Jon’s question. Jon heard the heavy feet of Sam shifted beside him in the snow but he refused to avert his gaze from his brother. He leaned in toward Bran.

“Bran. You must tell me if there is more, brother. Say it and be done with it. I must know so I can be ready—so we can be ready. Jon pressed. Jon could feel frustration rising deep within him and could sense that it was starting boil into anger.

Bran slowly lowered his eyes from staring at the heart tree and met Jon’s gaze for a long moment.

“Your mother, Jon.”

Jon had not expected Bran to utter those words. They hit Jon with almost physical force, pushing him backwards and off balance. He dropped his left hand to the snow covered earth to catch himself; yet, his eyes never left Bran’s face.

“My mother,” Jon whispered. “What about her?” He stole a quick look to Daenerys whose face had broken into an expression of piqued interest. His eyes darted from Daenerys to Sansa and then to Sam. From the expressions on the latter two’s faces he could tell that they knew what Bran was about to tell him. He gathered his balance and look once more at his crippled brother.

“Father never talked about her, Jon,” Bran uttered softly. “Father refused to speak about her for one reason and one reason only—to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what? From your mother?” Jon asked.

“No, father needn't worry about protecting you from our mother,” Bran said looking at Sansa. “Father protected you from those who would exploit, threaten, or kill you.”

“What? That does not make any sense. Who would want to threaten a bastard like me?” Jon asked, confusion clouding his face. The frustration he had felt starting to rise within his belly had turned to anxiety. He had not expected the conversation with Bran to take this turn. It had been wholly unexpected.

“That is the issue, Jon,” Bran responded, his tone softening slightly more. He reached out with his right hand and grasped Jon’s shoulder. “You’re not a bastard. You never were. You’re not even Eddard Stark’s son. Father raised you as his own out of love for your mother—his sister, Lyanna.”

 _Lyanna?_ Jon’s head swam at hearing the name of Eddard’s beloved sister. Eddard had refrained from openly speaking about her at all times. Grief had tinged Eddard’s soul each time someone had brought her up in conversation or when discussing how much Arya reminded some lord or lady of Lyanna Stark. The few times he spoke of her, he saw the same sadness and regret in Lord Eddard’s eyes as when he would look upon Jon. Jon heard Daenerys gasp beside him. He looked up at her and saw tears welling in her eyes.

 _Why? Why is she crying? This makes no sense_ , he thought.

“Lyanna?” he asked, looking back at Bran. “Lyanna Stark was my mother? But she was kidnapped by . . . .” Jon could not complete the sentence. He understood Daenerys’s reaction at that moment. He shook his head as if trying to comprehend what he had been told and he had just realized. Dizziness overtook him and he sat down in the snow.

“Yes. Our father lied to protect you—to fulfill a promise made and an oath taken. He claimed you as his son so no one could threaten you and to hide you. You are the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,” Bran said.

Jon turned again to look at Daenerys. Through the tears that were flowing down her cheeks he saw a gentle smile form. He looked to Sansa and Sam who each bore pensive looks of concern that he could not fully interpret as he sat there on the snow covered ground.

“But…but how do you know Bran? Why are you telling me this?” Jon asked.

“Because Jon, you need to know that your mother loved you and made father swear to protect you from Robert Baratheon’s wrath. Had Robert known that Rhaegar had a son, an heir, he would have forced father to kill you. He could not abide a Targaryen among the living. That’s why King Robert hunted Daenerys and her brother from the moment they fled Dragonstone.”

“Jon,” Sam said, looking down at his friend. “While at the Citadel one of the tasks I had was transcribing old scrolls and books that were falling into decay. Many of the scrolls I was assigned to transcribe had become nothing more than unintelligible detritus but one was a personal diary of High Septon Maynard. Gilly found a passage in the Septon’s diary about annulling Prince Rhaegar’s marriage and performing a second marriage while in Dorne. I ignored it at first but when I reviewed it again, the dates lined up with the Rebellion. And there has only been one Prince Rhaegar that I am aware of. What Bran is telling you is true. You are Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son.”

Sansa knelt down in front of Jon.

“Jon, father rarely spoke about the Rebellion or grandfather and uncle Brandon’s deaths at Aerys Targaryen’s hand,” she began. “After the sack of the capital father left to search for Lyanna who had been taken by Prince Rhaegar near the Isle of Faces. Everyone thought that Rhaegar had kidnapped Lyanna. He hadn’t kidnapped her, however. It was a secret elopement, Jon.”

“Father left with six companions and returned from Dorne with only one—Lord Howland of House Reed. Father brought with him his sister’s bones and buried her in Winterfell’s crypts. And, of course, he brought you with him, a grey eyed baby that he claimed was his bastard son born in the south. I have sent for Lord Reed and he rides even now for Winterfell. He will confirm everything Bran, Sam, and I have just told you.”

Jon’s heart raced. His dizziness had subsided but his mind grappled with the cascade of information from Bran, Sam, and Sansa that upended his world. His mind screamed that they were lying but in his heart he knew what they said had been the truth.

“Sam, you said that Rhaegar and Lyanna were married? That I am not a bastard.”

Bran answered instead of Sam. “Indeed, you’re not a bastard. Your given name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. You are the last living son of the Crown Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”

 _Heir to the Iron Throne_. _Aegon Targaryen. Prince Rhaegar. Daenerys . . ._

Jon looked again at Daenerys who had moved closer to him by a few steps. Sansa stood and backed away from them with an almost reverence to give the two of them some space. Daenerys’s face bore a look of love and compassion for him that Jon did not expect in light of Bran’s revelation about his status as heir to the Iron Throne. She knelt beside in the snow, wiped away a tear with her gloved hand, and took Jon’s hands in hers.

“Jon,” she whispered so only he could hear, her violet eyes locked immovably onto his own. She leaned in close to him. “Jon, I love you. You are my blood—my family. This—us—is our destiny. We are intended to be together. You were saved so my family’s fire—our family’s fire—does not burn out.”

Jon averted his eyes briefly. Nothing that Bran, Sansa, and Sam had told him made sense but at the same time he could not argue. Daenerys’s words rang true as well. He knew they were meant for each other. He loved her and the love they felt for each other was unlike anything he had experienced with Ygritte.

Jon had been drawn to Daenerys from the moment he set eyes on her. Prior to his arrival on Dragonstone he had heard rumors, whispers even, of the Dragon Queen’s beauty. Yet even knowing beforehand had not prepared him for her striking visage sitting upon Aegon’s throne upon her family’s ancestral home.

 _My ancestral home,_ Jon thought to himself. He looked back at Daenerys who patiently waited for him to respond. He smiled and squeezed her hand, nodding.

“Aye,” he whispered. “We are meant to be together, Daenerys. I just . . . I never thought. I . . . I don’t understand.”

She nodded quickly. “I know. But we will understand it--together.” Daenerys turned her head toward Sansa.

“You said that Lord Reed is _en_ _route_ to Winterfell?” she asked.

“Yes, your Grace. I received a raven just before you arrived. House Reed marches up the Kingsroad as we speak,” Sansa responded.

Daenerys returned her attention to Jon.

“Jon, you don’t need to choose,” Bran said before Daenerys could say anything. “You’re a Targaryen and you’re a Stark. The North is a part of you and it always will be. Father will always be a part of you. You are as much his son as I am.”

As Bran spoke, Ghost had silently approached Jon and lowered his immense body onto the forest floor. He laid his massive head in Jon’s lap between Jon and Daenerys. Jon let go of Daenerys’s left hand and laid his free right hand on the wolf’s head, softly petting the white wolf.

Bran continued. “But you have a role to play in the Great War, one that surpasses even House Stark’s role. You are a prince, Jon. A prince that was promised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment when Jon learns his parentage is, obviously, one of the most important moments in the Song of Ice and Fire. I don't know how GRRM or D&D will do it but I thought having Jon surrounded by his closest companions (incl. Ghost) and his family felt right. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys the chapter and I will keep slogging away. More to come...slowly...but there's more.


	7. The Red Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon meet in the aftermath of the godswood.

Night had fallen upon Winterfell many hours prior to Daenerys approaching her chamber door. Exhaustion had overtaken her and her limbs ached with a deep seeded soreness from a long day of riding followed by touring Winterfell, inspecting its defenses. Two of her Dothraki blood riders flanked her chamber’s door, standing as sentinels of the threshold and of access to their Khaleesi. Dany uttered words of thanks to them as she passed over the threshold to her chamber, closing the heavy oak door.

Dany and Jon had been able to remain in the godswood together for only a brief moment before they were called back to their respective responsibilities. At their parting Dany could tell Jon remained deeply unsettled by Bran’s words. Neither of them found the proper words befitting the moment; but, the look they shared assured Dany that they would see each other this evening.

Dany left with Sansa to tour the castle’s defenses. They had exchanged only courtesies, though Dany wanted to ask more questions about Jon. Dany refrained, however, since she knew that she could pose her questions to Jon himself later that evening. At least she hoped she could.

When the Dragon Queen and the Lady of Winterfell arrived at Winterfell’s feasting hall, they were met by Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone. Lord Royce was to provide her with a curation of the castle’s defenses and the status of northern forces.

“Your Grace, the Knights of the Vale are encamped outside Winterfell’s western curtain wall. There are just over twelve thousand knights who stand ready to ride when needed,” he had declared.

The Lord of Runestone had droned on for several long minutes about the Vale’s role in reclaiming Winterfell for House Stark, how Lord Arryn stood supported House Stark and, if House Stark had allied with House Targaryen, that she could count on the Knights of the Vale to support her claim for the Iron Throne. Dany listened as patiently as possible.

Dany has grown accustomed to the burdens of ruling during her sojourn in Meereen. Her education in the vagaries of ruling several cities had been challenging to say the least but she had eventually come to understand how to manage sycophants and petitioners. Beset by insurrection, violence, and deceit, Dany had always made efforts to rule according to her conscience and based on principles she believed in. Anyone who knew her history could not be surprised when she outlawed slavery or when she sympathized with the common people. It had taken the near destruction of her rule in Meereen at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy to teach Dany that strength—terrible strength—must occasionally be brought to bear to retain power.

 _A dragon queen without dragons is not a queen_ , Daario had told her. His lesson stung Dany bitterly the night he taught it. Dany knew he was right but could not bring herself to rule so harshly, or to exploit her children as fearsome weapons, to reap obeisance from an unruly populace. Dany eventually saw his words as wisdom. Upon her return from the Dothraki Sea, Dany had crushed her enemies from Yunkai and Astapor, and imposed the rule of law, her law, crushing the Sons of the Harpy. Doing so had completely broken her enemies’ will and allowed her political space to leave Meereen for Westeros.

Dany had been impressed with Winterfell. Jon had spoken so fondly of it during their trip north that she had been anxious to walk within its walls and to see places that were familiar to Jon.

 _I admit that I am most comfortable . . . most at home in Winterfell_ , he told her one evening as they dined in her boardroom aboard her ship. _Though my lord father’s wife did not want me present, my father treated me well . . . as well as he could. My father would take us into the wolfswood to hunt and to the godswood to pray to the Old Gods. There is something deep and ancient in the foundation stones of Winterfell that resonates with every northerner. It symbolizes everything we believe in, our credos, our loyalty, and commitment to the northern way of life._

There had always been a Stark in Winterfell. Even when the Boltons temporarily seized the citadel, they had kept Sansa in Winterfell to demonstrate to the other northern houses that House Bolton was not usurping the old ways but were merely honoring those ways as best it could in light of House Stark’s uncertain status.

Dany’s life had been one of exile, of being a beggar and vagabond, surviving only on the kindness or generosity of strangers who hoped to one day cash in favors with House Targaryen should it ever be restored to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Ever since she had been old enough to recall her dreams, Daenerys Targaryen had dreamt of a family—of a home. Dany imagined a house with a red door and a lemon tree growing in the courtyard outside her window. Her vision was just like the house in Braavos where she stayed with Viserys and Ser Willem Darry. The time she spent in Braavos had been simpler and among the most pleasant of her youthful memories. In her dreams, Dany would race toward the house, desperate to reach the door and enter into its safe confines. But her dream of grasping the red door's handle always eluded her, never coming within reach. 

Now that Dany had finally made it her chambers, she took in her surroundings. She could tell that a woman had decorated the room, likely Lady Sansa herself. Though northern in style, there were small flourishes of southern, feminine flair with splashes of color complimenting the austere northern décor. The subtle scent of northern pine filled the room. Having never been in the North before, Dany found the scent to be strange and foreign but one to which she was quickly growing accustomed.

Thick, wax candles burned on the hearth above the fireplace located on the room’s far wall. The hearth itself bore several carvings of House Stark’s sigil, though two of them appeared to have been defaced by a vandal’s chisel. The disfigured direwolves bore deep cuts and portions of the their heads were missing.

 _Likely a lasting memento from the Boltons_ , Dany thought to herself as she continued to inspect the room.

There was a good sized desk set under the large, shuttered window on the northern wall of the Chamber. Parchment, ink, and quills had been dutifully set out by Winterfell’s maester, along with wax, and candles. A large armoire stood next to a four-poster bed of solid oak. Dany could tell that the bed’s fluted cornices and corbels had been carved by a master craftsman. The dentil detailing that adorned the bed was plain but bore sharp, clear lines indicative of a master’s touch.

She sat on the edge of the bed and flipped her long travelling braid over her right shoulder. She had given Missandei leave to visit Grey Worm in the Unsullied camp this evening. Her decision had been motivated by her own selfish desire to be with Jon when the time came and to not have anyone interrupt or bother them. She also knew that Missandei and Grey Worm wanted to be together, having been separated for many months, only recently being reunited.

Dany’s thoughts as she undid her braid and brushed out her long, platinum hair turned back to her journey across the Narrow Sea, before her landing at Dragonstone. She and Tyrion had hatched a plan for the conquering of Westeros. It had been a plan that seemed wise at the time they concocted it. Dany craved legitimacy among the Westerosi nobles and she believed that the only way to do so was to take King’s Landing without relying on foreigners or brute force. Tyrion had been adamant on that point. The plan should have worked flawlessly . . . in theory.

 _The noble houses fear what they don’t understand_ , Tyrion had vigorously counseled. _They don’t understand the Dothraki and have only heard stories and rumors about the Unsullied. The lords of Westeros fear losing everything they’ve gained in the past. Power. Influence. Wealth. Every lord will cling to these things for as long as they can. Threaten to take them away and Cersei’s story tells itself most persuasively: You’re a foreign whore coming to destroy everything the noble houses hold dear and will destroy the Westerosi way of life. There will be a time to break the wheel but first we must gain total and complete possession of it._

Dany had pressed back against Tyrion’s counsel at first, noting that the Dothraki could not be matched by the Westerosi on an open field and that a direct assault on the capital would be the most rational and efficient way to begin and end what she viewed as the Second Targaryen Conquest. Tyrion was less sanguine.

 _Yes, you could fly Drogon to the Red Keep and melt it to the ground. Gods know that place is yours by birthright to do with as you please; but, such an act would severely undermine any diplomatic efforts we might be able to make with the nobles_. _It would breed unrest and resentment that would last generations._

 _Such decisive action would make the lords and ladies more amenable to my rule_ , she countered. _It would be a display of strength and immutable power not seen on this continent since the days of Aegon the Conqueror at the Field of Fire or Harrenhal. His use of dragons started and ended the Conquest. Why not be direct and use my dragons to win the war with minimal collateral damage?_ she pressed.

The two of them had gone back and forth like that for days while crossing the Narrow Sea. It had grown tiresome for Dany but Tyrion had been insistent that bifurcating the Targaryen forces constituted the right plan. Tyrion intended for her to send a strong message to the realm by seizing the seat of the most powerful house in Westeros at Casterly Rock. Using Dornish and Tyrell forces to besiege the capital on behalf of House Targaryen would demonstrate that Dany had powerful allies in Westeros. Ideally, this would make her cause more sympathetic to the houses with uncertain loyalties. Dany finally relented to Tyrion’s plan and it had been a disaster.

Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns, had seen through the folly of Tyrion’s stratagem almost immediately. She perceived that it was too clever by half and that war required brute force and direct action. There were times for tricks and deception but Daenerys’s strengths did not lie in those sleights. She had the numbers and three dragons who could not be matched by any weapon available to Cersei Lannister. She advocated hard for direct action.

 _You’re a dragon. Be a dragon_ , the Queen of Thorns had advised.

Dany should have listened to her and followed Olenna’s advice. Had she done so, she knew, Westeros might have trembled in fear of her but it would have at least been united under her banner and fully able to muster its complete strength to fight the dead.

Jon’s words in the Dragonpit echoed loudly in her mind.

_There is only one war that matters. The Great War. And it is here._

_Jon_. His somber visage came to her mind, a visage borne down by grief and regret.

 _My blood. My nephew. My lover._ A small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

_Another Targaryen. Another dragon. Another whose heartbeat sounded in fire and blood. Our line will not end with me._

Bran’s words about Jon’s true identity, a secret that had been so significant that countless people had died because of it, caused Dany’s mind to race and her heart to swell with compassion. Dany had fallen for Jon even before he left Dragonstone to go beyond the Wall. She had fallen for him when she thought him a northern bastard inexplicably elevated by the northern lords to be King in the North. Dany witnessed Jon’s bravery, his disregard for his own safety, reckless at time as it may be. She had also seen and touched the physical scars he bore for his loyalty and fidelity to what Jon believed to be right. Learning that she and Jon were family, bound by blood and fate, had only deepened her affection for him.

The signs of fate bringing them together had been there on Dragonstone.

_Circling high above Dragonstone atop Drogon, Dany could see a small figure standing near the edge of the northern cliff. The figure’s dark cloak fluttered in the high wind that persistently plagued her island home._

_Jon Snow. The King in the North._

_As Drogon descended toward the Dragonmon,t Dany decided to take this opportunity to demonstrate to Jon Snow, this King in the North, her strength and her bond with the dragons._

_She gently urged Drogon away from the Dragonmont and toward Jon and the cliff. Sensing his mother’s desire, Drogon soared through the sky and cut low over Jon’s head. Drogon circled once, passing Rhaegal and Viserion who patrolled the skies above the Windwyrm tower, and then landed on the clifftop several meters from Jon._

_Dany nudged him forward and Drogon obeyed. He charged forward toward the human and stopped mere meters away from him. She remembered Drogon’s roar, intent on intimidating Jon and cowing him into bending the knee to her. From her perch atop Drogon, she struggled to see Jon’s response to this display of power. What she witnessed had made her marvel. Jon did not cower in fear nor did he retreat from the dragon. He firmly stood his ground, removed his glove, and slowly reached out toward Drogon._

_Dany had initially wanted to scream out for Jon to withdraw his hand but the words caught in her throat. Something told her that Drogon would not hurt Jon; nevertheless, her anxiety rose as she watched Jon rest his bare hand on Drogon’s snout. She felt the dragon’s breathing immediately calm, a low, guttural hum of approval emanating from within the dragon’s throat. What Dany intended to accomplish with Drogon had completely backfired on her, piquing her interest in this man who not only did not fear a fully grown dragon but who would reach out and successfully connect with one._

Setting aside her thoughts of Jon, Dany drew herself a bath in her chamber’s anteroom. Winterfell had been built atop natural hot springs and its buildings had been designed to allow the natural warmth emanating from those springs to heat the castle. The castle had also been designed to facilitate access to the warm water for cooking, cleaning, and bathing throughout the castle. The water Dany drew from the well access in the anteroom was naturally warm. The water immediately soothed her aching limbs.

Following the bath, Dany readied herself for bed. She dressed in a linen gown, one that was heavier than the silks she had been accustomed to while in Essos. As she settled into the bed for the night, wondering whether Jon would come by her chambers, she heard a quiet knock at the door. Throwing aside the furs that covered the bed, and wrapping a knitted shawl around her shoulders, Dany walked to the door and opened it.

Jon stood at the threshold as he had many times before during the trip from Dragonstone to White Harbor. He wore a simple shirt and pants, with a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. His long, dark hair hung loosely around his shoulders, the bun undone. His grey eyes seemed darker, more sober, than any time prior, laced with a sadness that Dany could not identify. She smiled softly at him. She reached out to take his hand, bringing him to her, while closing the door after him.

Dany embraced Jon and held him close. Jon returned her embrace, much to her pleasure and relief. She had feared that in the wake of Bran’s disclosures that Jon might grow distant or perhaps discard her altogether due to their close, blood relation. She exhaled in gratitude at this small sign of his ongoing favor.

Jon moved to kiss her and their lips met with a familiar passion. His lips lingered on hers for a brief moment longer than she expected, his passion turning to a tenderness that she was accustomed to with him. Dany hesitated to speak, wanting him to lead the conversation.

“Daenerys,” he whispered. “I . . .” He took her hands in his, leaning his forehead on hers. He took several deep breaths before speaking again.

“Daenerys, I love you. Nothing I have learned today changes that.”

Dany felt the urge to reach out and assure him of her affection but something held her back; so Jon continued.

“All my life, I wondered about my mother,” he said, looking away toward the fireplace. “I wondered if she was alive, if she loved me, or even wanted me. I believed, and Lord Stark allowed me to believe, that she had been some commoner, a nobody, with whom he found comfort in the last days of the war.” Jon dropped Dany’s hands and walked  to the fireplace, resting his right hand on the hearth, staring into the flames.

“It was all a lie, though,” he said, shaking his head. “I know Sansa’s right—the lie was essential but it was still a lie. My father . . .” He choked on those words. “Lord Stark, led me to believe a lie and could not ever bring himself to tell me the truth.”

Dany watched him carefully but still did not speak.

“And now I learn that the man I believed to be my father was not really my father. My mother—his sister, Lyanna, and my true father was your brother, the Crown Prince of House Targaryen.” He turned to face her, his eyes reddening with tears. “I feel adrift . . . almost like I have lived a false life. It’s madness.”

Dany could not hold back any longer. She went to him and took his hands in hers.

“It is madness, Jon, truly, but can you not feel the truth of it in your veins? In your heart?,” she said placing her right hand over where his heart beat.

“I said this in the godswood—but we are meant for each other. Everything we have been through—my exile, slavery, the miracle of my children’s birth—and everything you’ve suffered—betrayals and death—has brought us together. I believe that more firmly than ever before.”

She reached her hand from Jon’s chest to his face, drawing his gaze upward from the ground to meet her own.

“You are blood of my blood, Jon. You are the blood of Old Valyria _and_ the First Men. There has never been such a person in the history of the world. You are special—unique—in a way that I had never before contemplated.”

“And you’re not bothered by the fact that we are of the same blood?” he asked, clearly unsure of the answer himself.

Dany’s back straightened and her expression changed to one of certitude.

“Not at all. In fact, the closeness of our relation renews the fires of Old Valyria. My ancestors—our ancestors—married brother to sister, uncle to niece, for generations. It kept the bloodlines pure. Our House, our people, possess a special promise and destiny. If, as Bran said, you are the prince that was promised, then you are a child of prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Jon responded.

“The red priestess, the Lady Melisandre, arrived at Dragonstone shortly after my landing. She’s the one who told me to summon you and to learn what you had seen. I was skeptical at first and merely saw it as a chance to sway you to support me against Cersei.” Dany stepped away from Jon slightly but kept her eyes locked on Jon’s.

“When I asked her what she believed the Lord of Light demanded of me, she quoted language of prophecy about the prince who was promised bringing the dawn. She would not say that I was this prince, or princess, who was promised but she told me that I had a role to play during the Long Night just as you do.”

“The Lady Melisandre . . . .” Jon murmured. He drew away from Dany and walked in circle, lost in thought. Finally, after taking a moment, he looked at Dany.

“Yes,” Dany responded coolly. She knew that Jon had no love lost for the red woman but also that he owed her his life.

Dany watched as Jon contemplated what she told him. He had bowed his head, his long hair obscuring his face from view.

“A child of prophecy. . . “ she heard him whisper. “What does that even mean?”

Dany stepped toward him.

“Nothing, Jon,” she responded, shaking her head. “Maybe everything. I don’t know.” She looked Jon in his eyes. “But you, my love, were brought back from death for a reason. You have faced the Night King and survived _for a reason_. Whatever the reason is, you owe it yourself to find out what that reason is and I will aide you in that journey.”

Jon considered her words for a moment, staring at the ground.

“Thoros of Myr brought Beric Dondarrion back six times before Thoros died. Beric told me that he fights for life and to keep others alive. That is his purpose—his sole purpose. Perhaps that is mine as well.” Jon moved to the bed and sat down on the edge.

Dany sensed a hint of resignation in his voice.

“Perhaps,” she responded. “I will not pretend to understand prophecy or visions in the flames. I just know that you are here with me right now. We are together and we are meant to be united in the face of darkness. Whatever your ‘purpose’ may be, I am confident that you will find it and that we are destined to be together.”

“I don’t . . .” he started.

Dany took his hand.

“You will,” she said, willing her belief toward him.

Jon responded to her with a smile and Dany leaned in to kiss him. Their lips met with tenderness that rapidly built in intensity. Dany sensed that she would have to lead him tonight. Seizing control, she expertly shrugged off her shawl and pulled her nightgown over her head, tossed it aside, and climbed atop Jon, facing him while straddling his lap. She kissed him hard, with more passion than before, and she could feel her blood rise within her.

Pressing her body against him, she felt Jon firmly place his hands on her hips and draw her closer. She pulled back and stripped him of his shirt. As she removed his shirt her eyes lingered on the deep scars Jon bore on his torso, marring his physique. She had asked once whether they still hurt him; Jon had merely given her a sober reply in the affirmative, noting that he did not think they would ever fully heal.

However, now, in this moment, Dany traced her fingertips lightly over Jon’s scarred body and Jon’s body trembled in response. Dany felt closer to Jon than she had before—a closeness borne of their blood and her conviction that whatever the outcome they were destined to be together at this point in time.

She reached out and brought his hands to her bare breasts. Jon exhaled a deep sigh, caressing her gently. This time it was she who trembled at his touch; Jon’s roughhewn hands seemed softer than they had before. Dany pushed him down so he lay flat on the bed. She removed his pants and mounted him. Jon moaned in response as Dany started moving her hips in concert with him.

Dany did not want Jon to think any longer about his cares or the burdens that lay upon his shoulders. There would be plenty of time for that later. She exerted complete control over their lovemaking, slowly bringing the intensity to an apex for them both, with Jon content to allow her absolute power over him.

In the afterglow of their passion, they lay together in Dany’s bed, their bodies intertwined, breathing deeply. Neither of them spoke for a long while, each apparently content to just be in the other’s presence. Finally, Jon stirred and sat upright, the furs falling from him.

“I know so little . . . nothing, really, about my mother, Lyanna,” he said, staring into the darkness. “Lord Stark never spoke about her. I think I understand now why he made that choice. My father, your brother, is nothing to me but a story, lionized by history and draped in tragedy.”

He looked at Dany. “What does it mean to be their son?”

She sat upright as well, he face framed by her silver hair that shone in the candlelight.

“I know little about Rhaegar and even less about your mother. I was a baby at the time of our exile and never knew Rhaegar. Viserys, who thrived on cruelty and lies, told me many stories about him, most of which I doubt were true. He said that Rhaegar was obsessed with prophecies and myths. He blamed me for being born too late, otherwise I would have wed Rhaegar rather than Elia Martell.”

“Ser Barristan told stories of times he and Rhaegar spent together in King’s Landing and on various excursions throughout the realm. He also told me what he knew of my great-grandfather’s death at Summerhall, in whose shadow Rhaegar was born.”

“You might never know what your parents’ hopes or dreams for you were other than what all parents want for their child: love, life, happiness. Those sorts of things. What I do know, however, is that their love gave you life, Jon. Lyanna’s dying wish was to protect you. Rhaegar, in a way, died at the Trident protecting you and your future. Our future.”

“You are Ned Stark’s son but you are also your own man, free to make your own decisions and to choose the path you will follow unbeholden to the ghosts from the past.”

Jon looked at her for a moment and considered what she said.

“Aye, you’re right,” he whispered. “You’re right. But if the northern lords find out that I am not Ned Stark’s son, what then? Northerners are mistrustful of southrons. They chose me to lead them, and I have done the best I could, but will they trust me still once they know the truth? What do we do once the truth is known?”

Dany nodded her head. She had wondered the same thing and had thought about what they should do about it. The answer seemed clear.

“We marry,” she responded softly.

“Marry? How does that . . .” he started before she interrupted him.

“Jon, you are of the North. You are a trueborn son of a northern woman. You are The White Wolf—a Stark. You have the loyalty of a direwolf, the sigil of House stark. I understand that your deeds are spoken of in legendary terms among northerners. No one can question your loyalty to the North.”

“You’ve spoken frequently about Ned Stark, a man who is as much your father as my brother. He taught you honor and loyalty. He imbued you with uncommon character and moral clarity. That is why the north followed you and that has not changed. What was it that Davos said when we first met in the Dragonstone throne room? ‘They chose you as their leader because they believed’ in you. They chose to lead when you were merely a bastard boy who abandoned the Night’s Watch; yet, they saw in you a true son of the North—a true Stark.”

Dany watched Jon as she spoke. She saw the anxiety that etched his face slowly fade away as her words hit home.

“The northern lords could have named Sansa Queen in the North. They could have unnamed you as king once Bran returned from beyond the Wall. They didn’t. They could have unnamed you when you left for Dragonstone at great risk. They didn’t.”

Jon nodded in agreement and started to speak but Dany continued.

“Our marriage irrevocably binds Houses Stark and Targaryen. Sansa and Bran are loyal to you. They will support the union and by extension all of House Stark’s bannermen will too. If nothing else, the northern lords are loyal to House Stark. Marriage is the only reasonable course of action to take in light of what we learned today.”

Jon stared at her in what Dany interpreted as astonishment at her rationale for marriage. It lacked romance, naivete, and was laced with pragmatism.

“The only question is,” she said, a small smile gathering at the edge of her mouth, “is whether I should call you Aegon or Jon from now on?”

Jon let out a loud sigh, laughed, and shook his head. Dany laughed quietly in response while breaking into a pleasant smile. Jon could be humorless most of the time, she knew, but she was glad that he could find some levity in the midst of the serious revelations that had been unearthed during the day.

Dany watched Jon as he raised his eyes to meet hers and she noticed an intensity in his gaze that had not been there before that evening.

“Aye. Alright then, we marry,” he said.

Dany felt a wave of pure ecstasy wash over her as she returned his gaze, filling her chest to the point that she thought she might burst.

 “We marry,” she said back to him, barely able to contain her joy. She fell into his embrace having never been as happy as she was in that moment.

Afterward, the two of them spoke quietly of their love and only briefly about what the future might hold for them. And as Dany allowed exhaustion to slowly overtake her, she started to dream. It was the same dream she had experienced since she was a little girl. A dream of a house with the red door. She saw it again, as she always did, off in the distance and she slowly moved toward it. This time, however, her progress was not hindered by desperation or panic. She saw the house with the red door clearer than she ever had before in her dreams. And this time, this time she saw someone standing in the doorway. At first she could not see the person clearly but he slowly came into focus.

Jon.

This time Dany reached out not for the red door's handle as she had innumerable times previous; instead, this time she reached out and grasped Jon's outstretched hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So four months! Four stinking months! This chapter has plagued me like no other. There are reasons for the delay but they are merely excuses.


	8. A Lion in Winter

Dawn arrived far too early for Tyrion Lannister. Since arriving at Winterfell two days prior, Tyrion had worked furiously to familiarize himself with Winterfell’s defenses, himself having orchestrated the defense of King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon’s army. Notwithstanding the many recent setbacks to his military strategies, Tyrion still believed himself to have developed a keen military mind over the past year. His role as Hand of the Queen required him to stay up late into the night poring over the smallest details of the forces that had been mustered to Winterfell. The late night planning, strategizing, and research would not have challenged his constitution in Tyrion’s youth. Tyrion had quickly come to realize that his days of womanizing and drinking late into the evening were soon to end.

Tyrion rousted himself from his bed and walked over to his chamber’s window. Throwing open the shutters he saw the same thing that he had seen since arriving in the north: a grey sky, grey clouds, and light snowfall.

“Ultimately, the Starks are always right,” he muttered to the empty room. “Winter always comes.”

After dressing himself, Tyrion strode quickly out of his bedchamber and into a hallway leading to the staircase that exited at Winterfell’s feasting hall. Tyrion could hear distant noises echoing throughout the hallway signaling that the day had begun already for most of the castle’s occupants. When he turned to descend the stairs something red flashed in the corner of his eye. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, spying Sansa Stark emerge from around another hall corner, her brilliant red hair shimmering in the torchlight.

Tyrion paused for a moment at the top of the stairwell and watched her approach him. She wore a grey dress with a high neck, her fur cloak fastened around her shoulders. Her footsteps echoed throughout the stone hallway as she walked steadily toward where Tyrion stood. Her blue eyes gazed down at a piece of parchment in her hands.

“My lady,” Tyrion said when Sansa neared him.

Sansa pulled up short, clearly startled by Tyrion. He saw her gather herself quickly.

“My lord,” she responded, nodding her head slightly.

“Off to break your fast?” he asked. “A morning meal is the most important meal of the day. Or so I have heard. I don’t know for certain whether that’s true or just a part of an old wives’ tale brought from across the Narrow Sea.”

“I heard the saying as well, my Lord. And yes, I am.”

“Please, my lady. Should we speak in such formal terms? We were married at one time, you know,” Tyrion said, splaying his hands outward in a gesture of invitation.

Sansa laughed slightly and gave Tyrion a sympathetic nod.

“True enough, my Lord. And I shall never forget your kindness nor your forbearance of your marital rights.”

“Sansa,” he said, “at some point I would like to learn about how you escaped the capital and how you came to be here, back home in Winterfell. I daresay we both have had arduous journeys.”

Sansa looked at Tyrion with what he thought was a glint of pity.

“Perhaps, someday, my Lord. But today is not that day.”

Tyrion nodded a knowing response and gave her a half-smile as she hastily down the stairs, not saying another word to Tyrion.

 _Not just a pretty face of a child any longer_ , he thought to himself. _There’s steel beneath that striking visage. Steel and ice._

By the time Tyrion exited the stairwell into the feasting hall, Sansa had already traversed the hall to the fireplace where the other Stark girl, Arya, sat eating food sitting next to the lad Davos had fetched from the Street of Steel in King’s Landing just a few months ago.

 _Clovis? No, that’s not his name,_ Tyrion thought walking toward a table near the fireplace. _Gendry. That’s it. By the gods, he looks the spitting image of his father when he was in his prime_.

Tyrion remembered the barrel chested Robert Baratheon from the days of the Rebellion. Lord Tywin had entered the war late and only when it appeared clear that the Targaryen dynasty would fall. Tyrion, who had remained at Casterly Rock during the Rebellion, had travelled to King’s Landing in the aftermath of that city’s fall, arriving only days after the Targaryen children, Rhaenys and Aegon, had been wrapped in crimson Lannister cloaks and laid at Robert’s feet.

Tyrion recalled the sheer strength and power had radiated from the Storm Lord and king ascendant even as he recovered from the serious injuries Rhaegar Targaryen inflicted upon him at the Trident. Robert’s deep voice filled the throne room as he pardoned some of the Targaryen loyalists. Tyrion had entered the throne room just as Lord Randyll Tarly had bent the knee to Robert and pledged fealty.

 _If only Lord Randyll had possessed the same sensibilities with Daenerys that he had in his youth,_ Tyrion thought as he sat down at the table.

“My lord,” Varys said, acknowledging Tyrion as he sat next to the dwarf.

“Varys, what news this morning?”

“Oh, my little birds have flown to and fro even in the frosty weather this past evening. They bring word of the imminent arrival of frogs and falling stars. Oh, and your brother as well.”

This news surprised Tyrion. He had expected the Lannister forces to be making headway from Lord Harroway’s Town but he had expected Jaime to be riding with the force’s vanguard rather than as an advanced rider of the Lannister column.

“My brother?” Tyrion responded, frowning. “Just him or does he ride at the fore of a great host of lions to join these frogs and falling stars, as you say?”

Varys warily eyed Tyrion, shaking his head.

“Just him, I’m afraid. My birds from the south speak of no great host of lions marching north to fight in the great war. Rather, they speak of deceit and bad faith from the lioness currently ruling over the shrinking pride.”

Tyrion felt his blood rise. _Cersei has played us for fools._

“If your birds are right, my sister has made a fatally stupid choice.”

Tyrion’s words dripped with disdain. He knew that Cersei was duplicitous but she was also a ruthless pragmatist. He had counted on the display of the undead at the Dragonpit to sway her to the latter.

“Does the Queen know?”

“Not yet, my lord,” Varys said calmly. “I was on my way to the council room for the session this morning, where I will tell her about this new song my birds sing. Of course, as Hand, you my lord have all the right to know this information, even in advance of our Queen, so you might decide on how to best advise her.”

Tyrion sighed loudly and took a large bite of the fish that had been set before him for breakfast, followed by a long draught of wine.

“Thank you, Varys, for the advanced warning,” Tyrion responded, rubbing his temple with his hands. “I worry that the Queen might choose to mete out punishment for this betrayal immediately rather than waiting for the great war to conclude. Gods help us if she flies off to King’s Landing to burn the Red Keep to foundation stones.”

“That is why, my Lord Hand, you were chosen to advise the Queen. You must keep her focused on what truly matters. And the erstwhile King in the North will keep her tethered to this fight, I am sure.”

“Indeed, he will. I daresay she will soon forget what it is like to not spend an evening in his bed.”

Jon and Daenerys had not attempted to keep their romance a secret at all since arriving at Winterfell. Tyrion had noticed that they seemed closer, more intimate, in their ordinary interactions than before arriving at the castle and walking into Winterfell’s godswood.

“They are young . . . and in love, much to Ser Jorah’s chagrin, my Lord Hand. And given the circumstances, their time together might be altogether too brief, what with the army of the dead possibly arriving at any moment,” Varys observed with the enthusiasm of watching a septa stitch a tapestry.

“Such a droll and impertinent observation, my friend, about an existential threat to all life,” Tyrion retorted. “But yes, I have noticed that Ser Jorah has been much more sullen in his attitude since our arrival. I will advise the Queen of your terrible news, spider.”

Tyrion ate his breakfast of seared fish and wheatbread quickly as Varys sat next to him. Varys’s eyes darted about the room, observing those who entered and who accompanied the room’s occupants. Tyrion watched Sansa move from northern lord to northern lord, speaking with each for a not insignificant period of time. Each of the lords responded favorably to her and acted with great courtesy toward the Lady of Winterfell. It was readily apparent that their loyalty to House Stark was not just toward the White Wolf.

_It seems the game has another skilled participant, just as Jon Snow said._

“Varysh,” Tyrion said, his mouth still full of a bread. “Tell me abouth the frogsh and falling shtars.”

Varys smiled at Tyrion. “Oh, Lord Reed will arrive today with his daughter and the crannogmen he was able to gather. His forces may well be the last reinforcements we receive before the dead reach Winterfell.”

“And the falling stars? Is House Dayne truly sending men to aid us in the fight?”

“Yes, my Lord Hand. But as you know falling stars are rarities in winter’s night skies. Starfall has sent us only a handful of its knights, its young lord, and his aunt, the lady Allyria. I regret that none of them are the Sword of the Morning.”

“T’would be nice to have Ser Arthur fighting this battle,” Tyrion commented. “Alas, he is dead. Dornish knights are better than nothing I suppose—which is precisely what my sister is sending.”

“Your brother is not nothing, my lord.”

Tyrion gave Varys a sideways glance as he wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve and stood up from the table.

“What time will they arrive?”

“Before noon, my lord.”

“And Last Hearth?” he asked with trepidation.

“Nothing, my Lord Hand.”

“The Wall? The Night’s Watch?”

Varys shook his head in response.

“Dark words, spider. Dark words are all you bring me this fine winter’s morn.”

“That and frogs, falling stars, and a crippled lion.”

Tyrion grimaced, shaking his head slightly. This was going to be a rough council meeting. He truly worried that upon hearing of Cersei’s betrayal that Daenerys might ride off with Drogon to burn King’s Landing to the ground. He did not want to tell Daenerys the news Varys had imparted but he knew that if he failed to do so he may well suffer the same fate as Lord Tarly and his idiot son, Dickon.

Deciding to get on with the day’s burdens, Tyrion walked out of the feasting hall toward the Great Hall where the Daenerys’s war council met. Set only a few meters from the feasting hall, Tyrion entered the Great Hall where he saw Daenerys standing on the raised dais next to Jon, his great direwolf lying on the ground behind him next to the hearth, its red eyes watching all of the people mingling in the Great Hall. Jon wore the usual Stark garb, with his heavy fur cloak fastened about his shoulders, Longclaw at his hip.

No matter how frequently Tyrion interacted with Daenerys Targaryen he was always struck by her pure, unadulterated beauty. Today was no different; the violet dress she wore was turtlenecked with an empire silhouette, the brocade exceptionally detailed. The dress made Daenerys’s amethyst eyes much more vibrant than usual, which was remarkable given the uniqueness of the Valyrian appearance. Tyrion took a moment admiring her before striding forward toward the dais.

Daenerys turned toward him as he reached the dais.

“Yes. What news?”

“My Queen,” he said bowing slightly. “Lord Varys has news from the south. Shall I?” Tyrion was not sure whether Daenerys wanted him to wait to inform the entire council.

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed slightly as she appraised Tyrion’s body language. She looked at Jon who nodded and then back at Tyrion. She waved him to come closer and the three of them broke off from the gathering crowd to a corner.

“Your Grace, Lord Varys reports that Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch will arrive this morning with a host of crannogmen. We have been expecting Lord Reed’s arrival for some time. The winter snows slowed their northern march but it appears that they have made it, weather notwithstanding.”

Tyrion shifted his weight between his feet. He caught Daenerys shoot Jon a subtle, almost imperceptible glance, that Tyrion sensed was laced with some undiscernible meaning.

“Please be sure and alert me when Lord Reed arrives. We would like a private audience with him,” Daenerys commanded.

“As you will, your Grace. Lord Varys also informs me that representatives from House Dayne of Starfall will be arriving along with the crannogmen.”

Jon stepped forward at hearing this.

“House Dayne? Really? Are you sure?” he asked.

“Well, no,” Tyrion admitted. “I am not sure. I am merely reporting what Varys told me just moments ago. His reports indicate that a small group from Starfall has travelled North and joined up with Lord Reed on the Kingsroad. It is a small group of knights and the Lord of House Dayne, Edric Dayne, a lad of ten and two years. His aunt, the lady Allyria, accompanies him.”

“House Dayne was loyal to my family during the Rebellion, yes?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes, you Grace. They were.”

She nodded. Daenerys and Jon once again exchanged meaningful looks, frustrating Tyrion. He disliked feeling like he was out of a very important loop of information.

He pressed on with his report.

“The reports concerning Houses Reed and Dayne are favorable, your Grace. It is not all good news from Lord Varys, however. It appears that my brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, also rides alongside House Dayne to Winterfell,” Tyrion said letting the last word hang precariously in the air before adding, “and only my brother.”

Tyrion watched Daenerys for her reaction and it was immediate. He saw hot rage rise behind her vibrant, violet irises. Her lips tightened to a thin line and she drew her shoulders back as if she were preparing to strike something or someone. Her hands closed into fists.

“So, your sister is not sending any additional forces,” Jon asked.

Tyrion grit his teeth together and shook his head. “It appears not.”

Jon hung his head slightly in obvious disappointment. The entire purpose of the foray beyond the Wall had been to persuade Cersei to cease hostilities and aid in the fight against the dead. Their efforts beyond the Wall were unquestionably for nothing.

“We cannot afford to shore up any of our southern positions. We need every available man north of Moat Cailin to fight the dead,” Daenerys said, turning away from Tyrion for a brief moment. “We will need to confirm with Lord Howland that it is properly defended in the event Cersei sends her forces north to stab us in the back.”

“I agree,” Jon responded. “We will have to address that promptly upon his arrival.”

“Any word of the Greyjoys. Euron—not Theon,” Daenerys asked.

Tyrion shook his head again.

“Varys did not say anything about Euron Greyjoy or the Iron Fleet,” Tyrion answered. “Ever since the destruction of most of our fleet, we have not been able to track his movements with any degree of accuracy. All we do know is that Euron did leave King’s Landing and set sail after the summit.”

“These are dark words, Tyrion. Dark words. Your sister’s treachery will be punished most harshly,” Daenerys grumbled. She inhaled sharply and Tyrion could tell that she was mulling over how she wanted to deal with Cersei in light of the betrayal.

“My Queen, Cersei will have to wait until this fight is over. Either we defeat the dead and Cersei suffers for it or we lose and Cersei suffers for it. The dead or House Targaryen will destroy her—she chose poorly. I advise you to stay focused on the danger we face here in the North.”

Daenerys shot Tyrion a withering look.

“Had I flown to the capital with Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal when we first made landfall at Dragonstone, I would have the entire continent behind me in this fight. Through fear or force, all of the great Houses would have marched North to defeat the dead,” she observed, fury dripping off each word.

“Perhaps . . .”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Yet, here we are now, less than what we could have been to stave off utter destruction. We must fight with the armies . . . and dragons . . . that we have. We defend the living with what we have. And in the end if I have to burn King’s Landing to the ground to punish your sister for her perfidy, I will.”

Tyrion nodded, understanding that to press the issue with Daenerys would have been extremely dangerous.

“As you say, your Grace.”

“But find Euron Greyjoy, my lord Hand,” she ordered, eyeing Tyrion. “Find him and make sure that he is not engaging in any further mendacity like your sister.”

“Of course,” Tyrion responded.

 _Good luck, Varys_ , he thought to himself.

“Anything else,” Daenerys asked, looking once more at Jon.

Tyrion inhaled. He had found that being Hand of the Queen in Westeros had meant only bringing Daenerys bad news.

“No word from Karhold. The snows have prevented any scouts from reaching the keep and no ravens have arrived. We have also not received any response to our messages to Castle Black.”

“So we’re blind,” Jon said. It was not posed as a question but merely a statement of reality. “Blind and facing an enemy whose strength only grows with each passing hour.”

“I intended to ask whether your brother, Bran, has done whatever it is he does and seen the enemy,” Tyrion said to Jon.

“No, he hasn’t,” Jon responded. “I stopped at the godswood before coming here.”

Jon hesitated. “He was not very responsive.”

Tyrion thought Bran a curiosity, nothing more. Jon and Daenerys both claimed to believe he was something more than just a poor cripple whose mind was addled by exposure north of the Wall. Tyrion, for all he had seen, remained skeptical of the supernatural.

The trio were interrupted by Missandei, who had approached the group, holding Daenerys’s white outer coat.

“Thank you, Missandei.” Missandei bowed her head slightly and assisted Daenerys putting the coat on.

“Going somewhere? I thought we had a council meeting,” Tyrion said.

“Yes, we all are, “Daenerys answered. “This will be a walking council meeting, inspecting the defenses and our preparations.”

Tyrion grimaced again. This had not been a good morning for him and now he would be traipsing about outside in the cold and falling snow trying to keep up with individuals whose strides far outpaced his own.

“I must have missed the message, I suppose,” he muttered quietly.

Daenerys smirked slightly at him. “Don’t worry. I had Missandei retrieve your cloak from your quarters as well.”

Missandei handed Tyrion his cloak but did not offer to assist him in putting it on, which Tyrion managed easily. Daenerys nodded at Jon, who stepped back to the front of the dais.

The group consisted of Daenerys, Jon, Tyrion, Sansa, Ser Jorah, Lord Royce, Samwell Tarly, and several of the northern lords. Daenerys and Jon led them out of the Great Hall toward the outer curtain wall. Tyrion appraised the state of castle as they walked outside. It had changed significantly since he had been at Winterfell last. The Boltons had rebuilt many of the structures that had been damaged when it had been sacked after the Iron Born incursion. Those portions of the castle looked somewhat out of place to Tyrion, as if the Bolton masons employed sickly blood for mortar.

Tyrion looked up and saw the banner of House Targaryen flying alongside the banner of House Stark at the keep known as the First Keep. The twin banners looked bizarre to Tyrion given the houses’s traditional enmity and separation. Now they were as closely tied together as any other alliance had been since Aegon’s landing.

 _The dragon and the wolf_ , Tyrion thought as the party ascended a staircase to the wall’s ramparts. _The last time they were connected it brought the Seven Kingdoms to its knees and nearly destroyed every Targaryen in the known world._

Finally atop the ramparts, Tyrion continued to appraise the defenses. Though House Targaryen had arrived only a few days before, the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen and her powerful army had propelled war preparations forward with additional zeal. Heavy smoke rose from the Winterfell forges and loud echoes of hammering resonated throughout the courtyard.

“We now have enough weapons forged from dragonglass for every man, woman, and child to be armed with at least a dragonglass dagger,” Jon said from their location atop the outer curtain wall and looking down toward the forges. “Ordinary steel will only slow the dead. So long as we strike with dragonglass, the dead will fall and not rise again.”

 _Arming women and children with dragonglass seems a sign of desperation. If it comes to a child being the only thing between the dead and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, we’re doomed_ , Tyrion thought to himself.

He knew it was wisdom to build morale and for the smallfolk to believe that they had a chance in the fight and that they could contribute in any meaningful way to the defeat of the threat they all faced. Tyrion also knew that once the battle started all plans went to hell; he had seen that firsthand at the Blackwater.

“Thanks to Queen Daenerys, we have adequate stores of dragonglass for the defense of the castle,” Sansa chimed in. “To the greatest extent possible, spikes, spears, and the stockades surrounding Winterfell will be edged with dragonglass. Dragonglass arrowheads are being fastened to as many arrows as possible. Lord Royce, who I charged with developing the strategy for the castle’s defense, has arranged for quivers of arrows to be stashed throughout the castle. If the castle is overrun, we intend to ensure that its remaining defenders have access to weapons sufficient to deal lasting blows.”

“The Knights of the Vale have edged their lances with dragonglass, as requested by Lady Sansa,” Lord Royce said. “The armorers who travelled north with us from the Vale have been attempting to inlay our armor with dragonglass, though that has proved extremely difficult. Yet, once more, at Lady Sansa’s insistence, they have found a way. It’s not elegant but it is an effective solution.”

Royce explained how leather straps with dragonglass shards had been to breastplates and bracers to provide the defenders the maximum amount of lethality against the dead. continued to talk about the Vale Knights and the difficulties they would face riding on horseback in the snow.

Tyrion nodded as his listened to Royce and thought back to his own preparations for the defense of King’s Landing from Stannis Baratheon. It had taken a monumental effort on his part and those loyal to him to prepare for the city’s defenses. The fact that he had to keep most of his plans secret and hidden from the prying eyes of his sister and his idiot nephew had made it all the more challenging. Tyrion had had to muster the entirety of his intelligence and cunning to come up with a plan to defend a city of over one million inhabitants. Observing the extent of Sansa’s preparations in her brother’s absence left Tyrion impressed.

 _Definitely starting to let on,_ he thought to himself.

“Maester Wolkan, with the assistance of Samwell Tarly, has drafted maps of the interior tunnels beneath Winterfell,” Sansa remarked nodding at Sam. “These maps will be provided to those cohorts charged with defending the interior of the castle. Winterfell has tunnels leading out of the castle but those have been sealed by the master mason. When the dead come, those defending the castle itself will need to move quickly along our internal lines of defense.”

Sansa handed copies of the map displaying the internal tunnels to those in the group. Tyrion took his but did not unroll it; he would not be defending. Not this time, at least.

Jon led the group along the curtain wall toward the Broken Tower, which stood just east of the North Gate. The north gate had been reinforced by the northerners, Tyrion could tell, but it was still a far cry from being ready.

“The dead are not like a living army. They have no supply train. They don’t care about roads nor do they respond to tactics or stratagems,” Jon said once the party had reached the Broken Tower. “They will march upon us like an overwhelming wave, ready to crush us all under their unrelenting weight. We cannot trick them or force them to separate their forces in response to ours.”

“If they are not like the armies of men, then how can we be sure that the dead will pass by Winterfell,” Ser Jorah asked. “They might altogether avoid the castle on their way south.”

Jon looked at the knight for a brief moment and looked at Daenerys.

“Because Jon and I are here,” Daenerys answered soberly. “The Night King knows that we are here as well as Brandon Stark. He will come for us because if he can defeat us then his victory is assured. This gives us an advantage of knowing his target, as small as that advantage might be.”

Daenerys’s words triggered Tyrion’s inner skeptic.

“Your Grace, how can you be sure that the Night King will come for you?”

Daenerys gave Tyrion a look of bemused impatience.

“Bran told us,” she responded in a manner that ended any possibility of a follow up from Tyrion.

The group spent another good hour atop the battlements surveying the plains north of the castle that led into the wolfswood. The winter’s snows were deep north of the castle’s wall. The northerners had once again been industrious, Tyrion observed, in clearing snow channels and in placing barrels of pitch at regular intervals across the fields.

“When I marched on Winterfell to reclaim it from the Boltons, Ramsay had set several flayed men on crosses in the battlefield. Though meant to intimidate our army, they also served as distance markers for his bowmen. They were able to rain death on us from above with far more precision than they would have been able to without the markers. Those barrels are our markers,” Jon commented. “We are doing our best to line the plains north of the castle with pitch. Fire remains our greatest weapon against the dead. So long as the archers are capable and protected, we should be able to create a literal wall of fire to consume the dead. Not to mention the dragons will be able to light the fields with flames.”

The stratagem Jon described was essentially the same one that Tyrion had employed at King’s Landing. He had successfully lured Stannis’s fleet into Blackwater Bay and had been able to light the bay on fire, destroying a significant portion of Stannis’s host. Without Bronn and the successful execution of that portion of the plan, the city would have been overrun before Tyrion’s father could have arrived alongside House Tyrell to save the city. However, this time there were two dragons who could create a wall of flames at any location over any battlefield.

Just then a horn sounded from the eastern gate. All of their eyes looked eastward toward the gate as a small figure ran across the courtyard below their location. The figure quickly ascended the steps. It was Jon and Sansa’s other sister, Arya.

“Jon. Sansa. Lord Reed is at the eastern gate. He has brought several hundred crannogmen with him,” she said, hurriedly.

Jon and Sansa exchanged quick glances, followed by Jon looking in Daenerys’s direction.

“Aye,” Jon said. “And House Dayne. Are they with him?”

Arya nodded.

“Alright,” Jon said quietly. “Sansa. Tyrion. Please escort Lord Reed and House Dayne to the Great Hall. We’ll meet them there shortly. Lord Royce, see to it that Lord Reed’s men find adequate quarters around the castle,” Jon ordered. Sansa nodded and looked at Tyrion, who in turn looked at Daenerys for her instructions. She merely nodded in agreement with Jon’s commands.

Sansa promptly turned on her heel and swept off, her long grey cloak whipping behind her as she hastily walked in the direction from which the group had come. Tyrion hurried behind her, trying to keep up.

He finally caught her as she passed beneath the arched gate separating the armory and the guard’s hall, his short legs running to keep up with Sansa’s long strides.

“My lady,” Tyrion said, gasping for breath. “My lady, need we move so quickly?”

“It would be impolite to keep Lord Reed and the Daynes waiting long,” she quipped. “We should hurry to greet them.”

“I don’t disagree, my lady,” Tyrion said, his voice raspy due to the fatigue that had set in on his lungs. “But I would rather meet them looking my best rather than like a sweaty pig.”

Sansa stopped and looked down at Tyrion.

“You look, handsome, Lord Tyrion. A slight gleam of sweat won’t besmirch your glow,” she said, offering Tyrion a smile.

“My glow? Psssh,” Tyrion responded. Sansa slowed her pace as the two of them walked into the courtyard nearest the eastern gate of Winterfell.

A group of six men and a young girl stood beside their horses just inside the eastern gate. They were not much taller than Tyrion, though they were clearly not dwarves. Tyrion and Sansa stopped a few meters away.

“My lady,” a man standing at the head of the group said. He immediately knelt in the muddy snow before Sansa and Tyrion. The men and girl followed suit, kneeling before Sansa.

“Rise, Lord Howland. You are most welcome at Winterfell.”

The man who Sansa had called Lord Howland stood. He was short and thin, with greying hair and grey goatee. His dark eyes fixed themselves on Sansa, not even seeing Tyrion. A large pin bearing the image of a black lizard on a green background clasped his travelling cloak at his neck.

“Thank you, my Lady,” Lord Howland said, standing up. He stepped forward and took Sansa’s hand, kissing it. “House Reed stands ready to serve House Stark in its hour of need.”

“And House Stark accepts House Reed’s assistance with gratitude,” she responded. She turned to Tyrion.

“My lord, this is Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Lord Howland curly bowed his head to Tyrion. “My lord.”

“Lord Reed.”

“My brother and Queen Daenerys bid you welcome,” she continued. “Salt, bread, and a warm fire await you in the Great Hall. Lord Royce will see to it that your men are given adequate quarters around the castle. As you can see, a mighty host resides now at Winterfell.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Lord Reed responded. “We are most grateful. My house has brought with us the bounty of the Neck, for what little we can add to Winterfell’s stores we shall.” He turned to the young woman who stood alongside his retainers. “I believe you know my daughter, Meera, yes?”

Sansa smiled at Meera who stood behind her father. “Of course. She was with Bran north of the Wall. She saved his life. My family owes her a great debt.”

“No debt is owed, my Lady. My daughter merely fulfilled our family’s oath to come to House Stark’s aid whenever called upon. It was an honor to have sent my children to assist your family. I only regret that I could not have come in my son’s stead.”

Tyrion heard sadness in Lord Reed’s voice at the mention of his son. _Something must have happened to him._

“We mourn with you, Lord Howland. Your son, Jojen, was a true and faithful friend. Your loss can never be made whole.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Lord Howland whispered, his voice breaking slightly. He took a moment to compose himself and spoke again.

“We encountered a small delegation from House Dayne on the Kingsroad along with the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. They road north alongside us.” Lord Howland stood aside and waved to the woman, boy, and men standing behind his retainers.

Tyrion audibly gasped as the woman stepped forward. To Tyrion she seemed to float over the ground, so graceful were her footfalls. He had never seen another woman—save Daenerys Targaryen herself—as beautiful or striking as the woman who now stood before him and Sansa Stark.

“My lord and lady,” she said. “I am Allyria of House Dayne. May I present the Lord Edric of House Dayne, my nephew?”

A young boy stepped forward and bowed his head.

“Greetings, Lady Allyria. Lord Edric. Welcome to Winterfell. We are honored by the presence of such an ancient and noble house within our walls. I daresay that House Dayne has never come this far north before,” Sansa said.

“No, my lady. We have not,” Allyria responded turning to Tyrion.

“My Lord Hand. We have come to pledge House Dayne to the service of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen and aid her in whatever way she deems necessary.”

“Her Grace is grateful for House Dayne’s loyalty and will be most pleased by your presence here. Queen Daenerys awaits you in the Great Hall.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother, travelworn and pulling his plain cloak’s hood up and over his head.

“Lady Sansa will escort you.”

As the group departed for the Great Hall, Tyrion hung back to greet his brother. They eyed each other for a moment, neither one speaking. Tyrion broke the silence.

“So,” he began, “all the Lannister banners?” He gestured about the emptying courtyard. “I didn’t realize that our family’s forces took such severe losses on the banks of the Blackwater rush. Indeed, I don’t see a single Lannister banner fluttering about in the northern breeze. All I see is a single haggard swordsman with several weeks growth on his chin.”

Jaime gave Tyrion a cross look.

“Stow it, Tyrion. I barely made it out of King’s Landing alive. I swore an oath and I intend to keep it even if Cersei does not.”

Tyrion shook his head, anger rising in his throat.

“What happened? You realize that if we survive the fight against the dead that there will be nothing I can do to stop Daenerys from exacting severe vengeance on Cersei. This betrayal by Cersei . . .”

“Should not be a shock,” Jaime hastily finished for his brother. “You know Cersei, Tyrion. She is as conniving and hateful a woman as there is. I love her but if not for her brutality, I might still have two children alive in this world. She was never going to ally with Daenerys.”

“Hmmm, nevertheless, she should have thought this through. Why put on the pretense of cooperation? Why not just kill us all while we were gathered into a single spot and separated from our armies?” Her foolishness will bring our House into utter ruin,” Tyrion exclaimed.

“Don’t forget your role in the downfall of our house, Tyrion,” Jaime chided, shifting his weight in the snow. “You sent Myrcella to Dorne. You killed our father while he sat on the privy.”

“I did. And my regret knows no bounds when it comes to what happened to Myrcella and Tommen. As for our father, well, my feelings are more complicated. Regardless, Cersei has signed her own death warrant regardless of the outcome her. Whereas before, exile might have been an option.”

The brothers let Tyrion’s comment linger in the air between them before speaking again.

“It is good to see you, Jaime,” Tyrion said affectionately, breaking into the awkward silence. “I’m grateful you are here and I am sure Daenerys will be as well.”

Jaime scoffed at Tyrion’s comment.

“I might just be dinner for one of her dragons,” he snarked.

“Perhaps. I assume you know something about what our sister is planning. Daenerys might require you to disclose those tidbits of information in lieu of feeding you to Drogon or Rhaegal.”

“What about the third one? No dinner for him?” Jaime queried.

Tyrion hesitated before answering. “The third dragon, Viserion, fell beyond the Wall to the Night King and his army. There are now only two dragons—two dragons against the army of the dead.”

Jaime’s expression changed from curiosity to horror.

“I saw what one of those beasts could do on the field of battle. You’re telling me that the dead have strength enough to fell one from the skies?” Jaime’s voice echoed with disbelief.

“Indeed, I am. I was not there when it happened but from what I gather this Night King is a foe we cannot afford to underestimate. You saw the dead man in King’s Landing. This is a threat creeping forth from a wet nurse’s nightmare. And yet it’s real. It’s all real.”

Once more Tyrion’s words lingered in the air between the brothers.

“What is our dear sister planning, brother?”

Jaime’s expression changed again. Tyrion could tell that he had been preparing for this question and to face the reality that he would have to inform on Cersei in order to stay alive.

“She sent Greyjoy to Essos to ferry the Golden Company to Westeros,” he said with resignation.

“The Golden Company?” Tyion could not contain his shock. “Is she daft? Did someone strike her head and create cousin Orson anew? Bringing the Golden Company to Westeros is sheer madness.”

“She needs men to fight your Queen,” Jaime said without any emotion. “The Golden Company has never broken a contract and she paid them handsomely with the backing of the Iron Bank. And if we survive the dead, Daenerys’s forces might be so depleted that she cannot effectively assault the south.”

Tyrion shook his head.

“Military strength only goes so far. Besides, you know the Golden Company’s history and its history challenging the Iron Throne. Its entire purpose for existing was to install a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. Does Cersei honestly think that just because she’s not a Targaryen and there are no more _male_ Blackfyres that the Golden Company won’t cause trouble?”

“I don’t know what she is thinking. I’m not sure I understand Cersei any better than you do these days. And you forget, brother, that the whole reason the Blackfyres never won the Iron Throne is because of Daenerys’s family,” Jaime coolly observed. “There is no loyalty or love lost between the Golden Company and House Targaryen. If anything, the Golden Company is nothing more than an elite sell sword company now that the Blackfyre line is dead.”

“Blood runs thicker than most believe,” Tyrion muttered to himself. “This day just keeps getting worse with each passing minute.”

He sighed deeply.

“Well come on, brother,” Tyrion said, waving to his brother. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

“Aye, some mulled wine might be nice.”

“That it would. First, we must head to the Great Hall to formally welcome Lord Reed and Lady Allyria. Then we’ll open a cask.”

The brothers of House Lannister walked side-by-side through the snowy courtyard toward the Great Hall. A thousand thoughts raced through Tyrion’s mind the least of which was what on earth Lord Reed might have to say that could have any sort of significance or that could complicate his day any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is, quite frankly, hard to write because he's so distinct. He's George's avatar in the story--along with Sam--and has such wit and wisdom that is hard to emulate.
> 
> Tyrion has a monumental task in the North as Hand of the Queen. And things just keep getting harder for him as word slowly trickles in from the outlying areas.
> 
> So I know this has been a slow burn so far. It's called the War for the Dawn for a reason though. Eventually, action is coming...just like Winter.


	9. The Truth of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran looks into the past while the players coalesce at Winterfell.

The man who once was Brandon Stark, son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, sat unmoving in the Winterfell godswood. Each exhale left his mouth in a small puff of frosted air. Samwell Tarly sat nearby, his large nose buried in a sizable, leather bound book. A dense silence hung low over the godswood, only the sounds of light snowflakes falling on the woods’ canopy above and Samwell turning a page in his book broke the silence.

Bran’s milk-white eyes moved rapidly as he searched through time and space for information—answers really—to the danger the living now faced. Though his physical eyes did not see what transpired around him his third-eye saw much more than any mortal could fathom.

_Your grace, Lord Tywin and twelve thousand men from the Westerlands are at the gate. He asks admission to the city. Lord Tywin is loyal and true to House Targaryen, your oldest and most loyal friend. I have every confidence that he has arrived to aid you in your time of greatest need._

Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, stood with his back to the disembodied voice whose utterer Bran could not see clearly, his face obscured in the shadow. The Mad King slowly turned, his violet eyes tinged with the red hue of insanity. His white-silver hair, unkempt from months of neglect, appeared to scream his volatility. Aerys raised a thin hand and pointed a single, grotesque, blackened finger toward the speaker _._

_My friend, Pycelle? An inveterate liar and oathbreaker, is Tywin Lannister. Betrayer! What say you, Varys?_

The visage of Varys appeared next to Aerys, floating in space. It spoke in a high, almost feminine voice.

_Lord Tywin has not obtained his great influence and power in the realm through recklessness, your Grace. With the fall of your eldest son and the defeat of his army at the Trident, the war is all but lost, your Grace. Eddard Stark marches down the Kingsroad with Robert Baratheon’s vanguard. If Lord Tywin is here, it is because he has come to solidify his place in what he believes is the next regime. Opening the gates to him would be folly, your Grace._

Aerys’s wild eyes roved back and forth around the room. He frantically rubbed his hands together as he muttered unintelligible, panicked words under his breath.

 _Your grace, the Lannisters are here to protect you_ , the shadowed figure of Pycelle whispered. _Lord Tywin knows that with Rhaegar’s death that the crown will be most grateful and will reward those houses who honor their oaths to serve House Targaryen in perpetuity. Lord Tywin served you as Hand for many years. He has been your most ardent supporter, though not at Court. The capitol will surely fall to the rebels unless we embrace Lord Tywin and his host as our protectors. It is the only way._

Bran heard a baby cry in the distance. He turned his head in the direction of the cry but saw nothing but blackness. He turned back toward Aerys.

 _Very well_ , Aerys muttered his voice tinged with mania. _Open the gates to Lord Tywin. Summon Rossart. If Lord Tywin turns, I must be ready. Ser Jaime! Come here. I have a task for you._

Bran’s eyes lingered on the disturbing sight of the Mad King in what Bran knew were his final hours. Soon, Bran recalled, Tywin Lannister would sack the city, Jaime Lannister would drive a sword through Aerys’s back, and the remaining members of House Targaryen who had remained in the capitol would be slaughtered. He turned away slowly and allowed his thoughts to fade to emptiness. He closed his eyes and felt a rush of wind and time transporting him elsewhere.

When he reopened them he no longer stood in the Red Keep. His feet rested on a white stone causeway that had been cut deep into a mountain’s side. A cliff of sheer, blood red rock at least two thousand meters high traced the causeway’s eastern edge. To the west, a river beset by large rapids rushed into open sea waters.

 _The Torrentine_ , Bran realized. He had never travelled to Dorne and had never seen the Torrentine, yet he knew that he stood on its shores as they existed sometime in the past. He had not deliberately chosen to come to this place. Instead, he had allowed the currents of time to carry him to this place unbidden or directed by him.

Bran raised his head and looked out across the Torrentine’s water, rushing into the Summer Sea. In the middle of the river stood an island and upon it a large castle unlike any Bran had seen before. Its white minarets pierced the blue sky and its large walls were adorned with lilac colored banners adorned with a white sword and shooting star.

 _Starfall,_ Bran thought to himself, _the seat of House Dayne._ Bran continued to take in his surrounds and slowly ambled up the causeway toward the bridge leading to the castle. The sound of hooves caught his attention. He turned his head to the north and saw three riders slowly approaching the place where he stood adjacent the bridge’s entrance. Bran recognized them immediately.

His father led the small retinue. Young Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, bore the same sullen look that Bran had seen on his face prior to the fight at the Tower of Joy. Bran had seen the same look on his father in a vision of Eddard leaving Winterfell for the Vale. It was a look of concern—of doubt.

When Bran had been a child he had seen the same look on his father’s face once before. It had been early in the morning the day that Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Bran, Robb and Jon had met in the courtyard that morning to spar with tourney swords, each wanting to expend nervous energy prior to the king’s arrival. Bran had taken a seat on a barrel near Mikken’s shop to watch his brothers fight. Jon and Robb circled the other and each struck solid blows for several minutes. They had all laughed at the sport of it all when Bran saw his father standing on the Winterfell battlements looking at Jon. At first Bran had thought his father was merely watching the sparring, as he frequently did, but he had been watching Jon with the same pensive and concerned look that Bran saw on his father’s face at the bridge over the Torrentine.

_He was concerned for Jon. For the secret he kept. For the promise he had made._

Meera’s father, Howland Reed, followed closely behind, his chest heavily bandaged. Howland’s dark eyes darted about searching the landscape for threats. Bran could tell that the wound he had suffered had not fully healed and that his strength had not yet returned to him. He sat nearly doubled over on his horse and wheezed with each breath as he passed by the place where Bran stood.

The final rider was also someone Bran recognized from the Tower. It was a Dornish woman, Bran could tell, but not one of the stony Dornish. She was clearly a sandy Dornishwoman, raised in the low valleys and deserts of eastern Dorne. She wore a blue riding cloak and she held a small baby in her arms. The woman’s dark eyes would move from watching the road ahead of her to looking down at the baby’s round face, smiling and whispering at him as they rode toward Starfall.

Bran kept pace with his father as he crossed the bridge. Two large guards approached his horse, the smaller one grabbing the reins. They wore light, leather armor, embossed with the star and sword of their liege lords. They both had long spears in their hands and swords in the scabbards hanging at their sides.

 _Who approaches Starfall, seat of House Dayne?,_ the larger guard demanded.

Bran watched his father eye the guard carefully. _I am Eddard Stark_ , _Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_ , his father responded. Bran noted the last bit about being warden of the north caught in father’s throat, as if the words were foreign to him and he was unsure of their truth. _I’ve come to see the Lady Ashara. Is she here?_

 _Stark?_ , the guard muttered. _What’s a Stark doing so far south?_

Eddard looked back at a large parcel wrapped in linen tied down across the back of his saddle. Bran saw his eyeline change slightly to lock eyes with Howland, who had straightened himself in his saddle, clearly exerting as much strength as he could muster.

_I’ll answer to the Lady Ashara. If you’d fetch her for me, I’ll explain why I’m so far south._

The guards eyed each other. The largest guard nodded his head at the third guard who turned and walked through the castle’s gate. He reemerged minutes later.

_The Lady will see you, my lord. If you’ll follow me._

Eddard’s small group of riders followed the guard into the castle’s first courtyard. It was lush and green, full of vibrancy and life. Birds of almost every colored flitted about the courtyard, filling its confines with their songs. The sound of fountain water echoed off the stone walls as the riders dismounted. Bran saw his father retrieve the wrapped parcel from his horse, holding it reverently in his arms.

Moments later Bran saw her emerge from the Keep’s threshold. Her long, dark hair seemed to flow like water down her back in stark contrast to the plain white dress she wore. Ashara’s violet eyes shone in the sunlight and she bore a light smile on her lips as she approached Eddard Stark.

 _My lord, Eddard_ , Ashara said joyfully. _This is most unexpected. Welcome to my home._

Eddard bowed slightly before Ashara Dayne. When he raised his head Bran could see tears welling in his father’s eyes.

Ashara’s demeanor changed immediately upon seeing his father’s expression. She took a half step forward and extended her right arm, touching Eddard’s face. The tears that had been welling in his father’s eyes flowed down his cheeks as Bran saw, for only the second time in his life, his father weep.

 _What saddens you, dear Eddard? Are you not pleased to see me?_ she whispered.

 _My lady_ , Eddard weakly responded, _I bring sad tidings._

He stepped backwards slightly and unwrapped the parcel. Bran knew what was inside and when Eddard slowly undid the final wrapping he could see the pale milkglass color of a sword’s blade reflect the sunlight.

Ashara’s expression of fond affection for Eddard immediately changed to revulsion at seeing Dawn. Her hands quickly covered her mouth as she comprehend what lay before her. Dawn, House Dayne’s sword of legend, had been returned to Starfall without the Sword of the Morning bearing it.

 _My brother? What has happened to Arthur_ , she demanded of Eddard.

Eddard’s dour face struggled to muster a response. _He…he fell, my lady._

 _No_ , Ashara screamed in a whisper. _No!_ She fell to the ground where she stood and started to sob. A maid rushed forward and put her arms around Ashara as she mourned her brother. Bran watched carefully as Eddard stood there, uncertain and unmoving, holding the great sword of the noble house.

The empty courtyard seemed to have silenced itself. Birds no longer chirped or sung their songs. All seemed quiet—muffled by the sound of running water. As Bran surveyed the scene, movement caught his eye and he turned to see a young girl peeking out from behind one of Starfall’s massive marble columns in the archway outside the keep’s main door. The child made no sound; instead, she simply stared at Ashara’s display of mourning. He heard his father clear his throat from behind him.

_Your brother, Ser Arthur, fought honorably and nobly, my lady. He died fulfilling his oath to the prince’s family. Out of respect for him . . . and for you . . . I have brought your family’s sword so that it may rest above the hearth at Starfall, awaiting another Sword of the Morning._

Ashara looked up, her tear stained eyes raw with anguish. With the help of the maid who had rushed to her Ashara stood as Eddard placed the great sword in her outstretched arms.

_Thank . . . thank you, my Lord. You have done this family a great service by returning this sword. Please introduce me to your companions. You shall stay and have meat and mead at my table as long as you desire it._

Eddard lowered his head in contemplation of what he would do. Bran felt certain that he would refuse and that he would immediately head to north, back to his mother who Bran knew was great with child.

 _Thank you, my lady. You are too generous. We shall stay the evening and depart in the morning. As for my companions, this is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, and this is Wylla_ , Eddard responded indicating to each in turn.

 _And who is that child_ , Ashara asked.

Eddard took a brief moment before responding.

_That child, my lady, is another reason why we have come to you._

Bran did not hear the rest of his father’s conversation with Ashara in the courtyard. Instead, he hurtled forward through time to a moment later that evening. His father, Howland Reed, and Ashara Dayne sat in a semi-circle of chairs next near the hearth in one of Starfall’s upper rooms. Wylla and the baby were notably absent.

 _No one must know his identity, Ned_ , Ashara insisted. _Your sister knew this; she understood it. If Robert learns that Rhaegar had another son, another trueborn heir, this child will die._

 _Aye_ , Ned responded. _I know the child mustn’t know who he is until he is out of danger of Robert’s vengeance. But what story do I tell? How can I protect him and honor the promise Lyanna asked of me?_

 _You lie_ , Howland interjected. _You lie about who he is. The child does not have any traits that mark him as a Targaryen. His eyes and hair are dark. The child bears his mother’s visage. To my eyes, the blood of the First Men runs through him stronger than any other. If you claim him as your bastard, none shall cast doubt upon it._

Ashara nodded in agreement.

 _You must claim him, Ned_ , she said _._ She reached out her hand and rested it on Ned’s. _You must claim him as your own in order to protect him. Robert will not question your word if you say that the child is yours. He will be safe with you in the North._

Ned looked down at her hand on his and slowly withdrew his own. Bran could see the emotional pain this act caused his father and that he had taken comfort in Ashara’s touch, if even for a moment.

 _Aye. I know_ , he answered _. May my lady-wife forgive me. She will never know the truth. Nor shall any others outside of this room. I shall claim him as my own. He is my family; my blood._

 _Has he a name, Ned,_ she asked.

 _Only the name her mother gave him_ , he responded.

Ashara laughed quietly.

_Well, that will not do. Eddard Stark naming his bastard son after the Targaryen conqueror, the man who took away the northern crown astride dragons. No. He needs another name—one befitting the burden you carry and the nobility of the child’s true identity._

_Jon_ , Eddard responded. _I shall name him Jon, after Jon Arryn._

 _A good name,_ Howland quipped. _Strong._

 _Yes,_ Ashara agreed. _It is a good name. But now we must craft our truth from the fiction. You cannot take Wylla with you on your journey north. The child’s mother must be a myth—unknowable and unfindable. You must allow rumor to spread but never stoop to its substance. The more people speculate the less they know. Under any event, this Wylla must stay at Starfall under my family’s care for the rest of her days._

 _But the child is too young to travel_ _without a wet-nurse_ , Howland protested.

Ashara shrugged in response.

 _He is too young . . . for now. You all must stay here until he is old enough to travel north_ , she responded, the firelight dancing in her eyes. She leaned forward, her expression changing to one of utmost certainty. _Only a single month has passed since his birth, Ned. He needs at least eleven more before he will be strong enough to travel with you through the Red Mountains to Nightsong and then to Highgarden. Even then the Roseroad is long and the journey far to Winterfell._

 _We could ride for Oldtown and secure passage on a boat north past Lannisport_ , Howland suggested.

Ashara considered Howland’s suggestion for only the briefest moment.

 _No, such a sea voyage would bring you too close to the Ironborn. Their raiding has thrived in the rebellion’s chaos. I daresay that the Greyjoy’s boldness will only increase in the aftermath of the dragons’ fall_ , Ashara remarked, leaning back in her chair. She looked intently at Ned.

_Who knew your purpose when you departed Storm’s End after lifting the siege there?_

Ned thought for a moment before answered.

 _Only the men who came with me to find Lyanna. We_ , Ned indicated to Howland and himself, _are all that is left._

Ashara, clearly pleased by Ned’s answer, smiled.

 _Starfall is far from the capitol and Dorne’s loyalty to the iron throne has always been balanced upon a dagger’s edge_ , she commented casually _. With the death of Princess Elia—whether Dorne stays loyal to Robert is an unknown. Doran might placate your friend, Ned, but Oberyn will want vengeance for Elia and her children. The Lannisters must pay for that crime and Robert is the man who acquiesced to it._

_Still, your stay here would go unnoticed for many months. And I have doubt that any of my family would seek to whisper in Varys’s ear to pass on information to Robert about your whereabouts._

Howland snorted in surprise. _The Spider has birds that sing in all lands, my lady. I am sure he knows we are here already._

 _Perhaps. Perhaps . . .but I think the Spider’s attention is focused elsewhere at least for now_ , Ashara said.

Bran slowly allowed his mind to relax and travel back through the currents of time to the present where Samwell Tarly stood over him.

“Bran. Bran, wake up,” the Night’s Watchman said, grasping Bran’s shoulders and gently shaking them.

Bran opened his eyes and swallowed.

“Hello, Sam. How long was I away?”

“Oh,” Sam started, shifting his weight slightly, “not long. An hour or so. See anything interesting or important?”

Bran liked Sam and thought him a gentle soul who had been, like so many others, mistreated by life’s vicissitudes. Sam had taken to spending more and more time with Bran since he arrived at Winterfell several weeks before. Bran had found him to patient and genuinely curious about Bran’s visions. Though he was not as patient as Hodor, he had proven himself to be a longsuffering comrade.

“I am not sure,” Bran responded. “There are times that I can choose where I go through the currents of time. Other times, I cannot. This was one of the latter rather than the former.”

Sam knelt down in front of Bran in the godswood’s snow.

“Any thoughts why that is. Why you can choose and other times you cannot?”

“Not really. I never thought to ask the Three Eyed Raven before I became him,” he responded.

Bran could see Sam think on what he had said. It sounded wild, no doubt, that he had learned from the Three Eyed Raven and had then become him.

“Jon sent for you. He’d like for me to bring you to the Great Hall if you are willing,” Sam commented. He stood up from the snow and dusted his feet slightly, walking around the back of Bran’s wheelchair.

“Of course. If you would please, Sam,” Bran requested. He clasped his hands in front of him on his lap as Sam started to wheel him through the snow covered godswood back toward Winterfell’s Great Hall.

The snow crunched loudly beneath the wheels and Sam’s footfalls as the duo made their progress through the woods. Had one not known better, the fact that an existential threat was bearing down on the castle’s inhabitants would have been inconceivable. Yet both the men who traversed the woods knew better and they also knew that the time was coming soon when the living would have to face the dead.

The Great Hall was full and bustling with activity when Sam wheeled Bran within its confines. Sam and Bran stopped when they reached Jon and Daenerys.

“They have arrived, then, have they?” Bran asked quickly.

“Yes, they have,” Jon responded, looking intently at Bran.

“You can ask, Jon,” he said in a tone utterly lacking in emotion.

“Have you seen the dead? Do you know where they are? The progress they’re making?”

“No. The last I saw of the dead, before the ravens died, was north of Long Lake and nearing Last Hearth.” Bran hesitated. “My vision is . . . clouded when I try to see the dead. The Night King knows I am searching for him. He knows that I am south of the Wall and he knows that I am here, with you and Daenerys.”

Jon grimaced and swore under his breath. He balled his right hand into a fist and lightly punched it into his left.

“Jon!”

Bran, Jon, Sam, and Daenerys turned their heads toward the voice to see Sansa approaching at the head of a large group of short, stocky men and women. They all wore the muted greens and browns associated with the crannogmen of Greywater Watch.

As Sansa introduced Lord Reed to Jon, Bran allowed his mind to travel back to Starfall.

Time had clearly passed since he had last seen his father. His hair was longer and his face fuller and tanner, having enjoyed the benefits of Dorne’s southern, coastal climate. Eddard Stark wore a light shirt with trousers as opposed to his northern garb. He sat at a table set in one of Starfall’s gardens along with Howland Reed and Ashara Dayne. Ashara held the baby Jon in her lap.

 _We leave for Winterfell tomorrow. The time has come us to return north_ , Eddard said, fidgeting slightly with his hands. _The boy is strong enough now and he is old enough for the journey_.

 _Aye, the lad is strong as a direwolf and healthy too_ , Howland added, looking closely at Jon.

Bran studied Ashara’s face for she looked far more stricken than she had before. Her beauty was tinged with melancholy, a sadness that had been absent when Bran had seen her before. Ashara’s eyes gazed down at Jon and she smiled at him, the child returning her expression.

 _I know that you must leave. I also cannot help but think that he would be safer to remain here with my family in Dorne, far away from those who would seek to harm him_ , she commented. She looked deeply into Jon’s curious grey eyes. He reached for her.

 _He is my blood, Ashara_ , Ned responded, shaking his head _. He is my family. And my promise was to Lyanna that I would protect him. I cannot leave him here so far from me. I must keep him close in order to protect him; and I cannot linger here any longer. My wife most certainly wonders if I am dead and buried in an unmarked grave by now._

Bran saw Ashara draw back slightly at the mention of Bran’s mother.

 _I know,_ she whispered softly. I _know. It is just that I shall miss him_. _And you._

Ned gave her a sympathetic smile.

 _We must be ready for when the time comes for him to know the truth._ Ned walked to a large, white table and picked up a quill and parchment. He quickly scratched out words on the parchment, spread sand over the writing, and rolled the paper into a scroll, sealing it with wax and a signet ring with House Stark’s sigil.

_I shall leave this with you, Lady Ashara, for safekeeping._

Bran returned back to the present almost as quickly and easily as when he left. Meera stood in front of him, dressed no longer in the rotting, matted furs that she had worn out of the cave north of the Wall. She wore clothes quite similar to those she wore when Bran, Rickon, Hodor, and Osha first encountered her and Jojen after fleeing Winterfell. They were heavier and warmer than before due to the changed seasons. Her face was fuller, her eyes somewhat brighter than the weather worn face that had bid him goodbye with bitterness.

“Hello, Meera,” Bran said at her.

“Hello, Bran,” she answered. “What did you see? I could tell that you were somewhere else.”

Bran did not answer for a few moments and instead stared at Meera’s father who was in conversation with Jon and Daenerys.

“Bran.” The sound of Meera saying his name snapped him back to attention.

“I saw your father . . . and mine many years ago.”

“My father?”

“In Dorne. At Starfall.”

As Bran said Starfall’s name aloud his sight landed on Allyria and Edric Dayne leading their coterie of knights toward the dais where Jon and Daenerys stood. He recognized Allyria as the young girl who hid behind Starfall’s archway as his father presented Ashara with Dawn.

“Your grace,” Sansa called. Daenerys turned her head toward Sansa at the front of the dais. “I present the Lord of Starfall, Edric Dayne, and his aunt Allyria.”

The boy and woman knelt before Daenerys.

“Rise,” she commanded. The two of them immediately stood.

“You grace,” Edric began, his voice quiet and halting. Bran watched Daenerys look on him with patience, a small smile on her face. “Your grace, I have come to pledge my house’s loyalty to you. By earth and water. Sky and stone. And by fire and ice we renew our loyalty to House Targaryen now and always.”

Bran watched as a pleased look stole across Daenerys’s face. He was sure that very little pleased the queen more than watching the old, historic houses of Westeros make obeisance to her.

“Thank you, Lord Edric. I accept House Dayne’s oath to House Targaryen,” she responded, coolness tinging her voice. “With the fall of House Martell I brokered an alliance with Ellaria Sand and her daughters. They were captured by the Ironborn and taken to King’s Landing. Tell me, Lord Dayne, who now commands the loyalty of Dorne?”

Edric’s eyes widened and he looked stricken, his face turning white. Bran could see that the child did not know how to answer. His aunt stepped forward.

“If it pleases your grace, I shall answer for my nephew,” she responded.

“Very well,” came Daenerys’s reply.

Allyria stepped forward slightly, stopping only a few meters in front of the dais.

“Dorne is leaderless in these times and looks for guidance. Many of the older houses that remain bicker over Dorne’s role in the Seven Kingdoms and whether continued fealty to the Iron Throne is wise. I think, perhaps, Ellaria underestimated the role that Prince Doran and House Martell played in keeping Dorne in the fold—so to speak. Now there are no Dornish princes or princess left alive, your grace.”

Allyria Dayne turned on her heal and walked back toward her retainers. One of her knights stepped forward and handed her a silver box, embossed with symbols that Bran could not quite make out from where he sat, watching and listening. Allyria turned around and stepped forward, the box held in her arms.

Bran looked carefully at the package. It was a small stone chest adorned with the sigils of many Dornish houses. Bran quickly tried to call Maester Luwin’s lessons to his mind as he scanned the box. Yronwood, Dayne, Jordayne, Blackmont, Qorgyle, and Santagar’s sigils decorated the box. Bran watched as Allyria laid the box at Daenerys’s feet.

“This chest contains oaths of fealty to House Targaryen, signed by the lords and ladies of each house at a time when it was treason to do so. Several years after you and your family fled to Essos, Prince Doran met with the heads of the prominent Dornish houses in secret at Hellholt. It was there that a secret pact was entered into by all in attendance that if a member of House Targaryen should ever set foot on the soil of Westeros that they would come to your aid. Though only I and my most loyal knights have travelled north, the forces of Dorne make ready to aid you during any advance on the capital.”

Daenerys’s eyes widened at Allyria’s statement, a smile breaking across her face.

“Dorne has my gratitude and will be rewarded when I sit on Aegon’s throne,” she replied. She nodded and two of her Unsullied stepped forward and removed the box.

“I have another item for your grace,” Allyria said. Bran noticed that she looked not at Daenerys but at Jon. Allyria motioned for one of her knights to bring something to her. It was another box whose lacquer was black as midnight. Yet, Bran could see, clear as day, the sigils of House Stark, House Reed, and House Dayne.

“My lord,” she said looking straight at Jon. “You are aware, are you not, that following the end of the rebellion that Lord Eddard visited my home at Starfall?”

Jon appeared slight uneasy but answered clearly.

“I am aware, my lady.”

“He did not come alone. He came with Lord Reed here. I was a young girl at the time of his visit. He spent many months with my family, including my sister, Ashara, who had great affection for Lord Eddard.”

“My father,” Jon said, the words catching slightly, “always spoke with respect for your late sister, my lady. He grieved for her passing.”

“Thank you, my lord. You were present at Starfall, my lord, though a mere babe at the wet nurse’s breast. Lord Eddard reposed at Starfall while you gathered strength enough to make the journey north to Winterfell.”

“Before her death my sister gave me this box for safe keeping. It has not been opened since your father and Lord Howland left for the north. I know not what it contains. My sister merely told me that this was ‘for Jon’ and that I would know when it was time to bring it north.”

Jon looked from Allyria to Howland.

“Lord Reed. Do you know what this contains?” Jon asked.

Howland Reed’s muddy brown eyes stared at Jon. He bowed his head and said, “I do, your grace. My house’s sigil is upon it and I was there at its making.”

 _Your grace_. Those words leapt out in Bran’s mind.

“What shall I find, my lord,” Jon asked, glancing at Daenerys.

“Truth.”

Bran watched as Jon stepped down from the dais, removing the gloves from his hand, as he took the black lacquered box into his hands. He carefully undid the clasp and opened it. Bran watched as Jon removed four scrolls, each bearing a wax seal of Houses Stark, Dayne, Reed, and a seven pointed star of the Seven.

Jon broke the seal of House Stark and unfurled the scroll. It was lengthy and written in his father’s messy handwriting that Bran had become so familiar with while a child. Bran saw Jon’s dark eyes scan the document, a look of relief and regret passing over his visage as he read. Jon looked up at Daenerys and handed her the scroll. She read it while Jon broke open another. He repeated the process for each and after finishing the last scroll, he looked up at Lord Howland.

“You do not appear surprised by the scroll’s contents, your grace,” Lord Howland observed.

“We are not, my lord. They confirm information I learned from Bran shortly after arriving home at Winterfell.” He took back the scrolls that he given to Daenerys. He walked toward the fire burning in the Great Hall’s hearth. Everyone watched as Jon cast them into the flames and their contents, so carefully kept for two decades, turned to ash.

“I have pledged House Stark and the North to House Targaryen and to Queen Daenerys. What happened years ago no longer matters. The truth those scrolls held doesn’t matter. The dead are coming for us all and we must be united if we’re going to sur--.”

A horn blast came from outside. Bran turned his head toward it, the sound echoing throughout the Great Hall. Arya rushed into the hall, breathing heavily.

“Riders. From the Wall. Last Hearth. In the courtyard.”

Bran watched as the great hall exploded into activity. Bran knew that Jon and Daenerys had been waiting for news either from the Wall or from the Umbers. He had tried to see far enough North to give them some insight but had been unable to see the dead or their movements. The hall emptied quickly with everyone rushing to various tasks except for Meera and Sam, who stayed by Bran.

“You know what was on those scrolls,” Meera asked quietly.

“Yes. I saw my father write his. But as he said, the truth they contained doesn’t matter any longer. It now only matters to Jon and Daenerys, witnesses to their contents. What matters now is the Great War and I fear that it has reached us at last.”


	10. Warden of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors arrive and plans are made for the defense of the North. But time is running out.

Arya led Jon, Daenerys, and other members of the war council outside. The grey northern sky hung low over the castle washing the color out of everything exposed to the winter light. A dense frost had set in over the castle, covering the doors and arches in a sheen of frozen whiteness. Jon’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath freezing when expelled from his lungs. He had been waiting for news from the Wall or Last Hearth but his patience had been met only with silence. But now, news had come to him. He quickened his pace.

The entire castle seemed to have erupted into frenzied activity around him. Dothraki, Unsullied, northern soldiers hurried about the courtyard attending to various activities. Jon heard Bronze Yohn’s baritone voice bellow instructions from the ramparts above him. His ungloved right hand brushed slightly against Daenerys’s hand as the approached a small clutch of men gathered near the north gate. He stole a quick glance at his lover and queen but she did not return the gaze. She looked straightforward, her porcelain colored face a façade of resolution.

“Make way,” Arya yelled as they approached the gathered men. The men made no effort to clear a path. She charged forward.

“Make way you shits!”

The closest men, stunned at the command, immediately parted and created a path for Jon and Daenerys to walk through. Five men, some of them mere boys, stood next to emaciated horses, leaning on them for support.

Jon had seen men like this before after Hardhome. He had been one of them. Fighting the dead, he knew, took its heavy toll. Each man was caked in blood and filth with no weapon in sight. They had arrived with only their lives. One of the men, whose right arm nothing but a bloody stump bound by a tourniquet, looked at Jon with a relieved expression. He swayed and fell to the ground. Jon moved to the fallen man and leaned over him.

“You there!” Sansa called. One of Winterfell’s serving girls stopped, giving Sansa her full attention.

“Bring these men some mulled ale and blankets,” she ordered.

“Yes, m’lady,” the girl responded and hurried off toward the larder.

“Jon,” the man whispered faintly. Jon recognized the voice.

“Edd!” Jon exclaimed. “Edd, what happened?”

The 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch never answered. Jon held his friend’s head as Edd’s eyes rolled back into his skull, his breathing slowed and then stopped.

No one spoke for a brief moment as Jon cradled his fallen friend in his arms. He slowly laid the Lord Commander’s head on the ground and stood over him.

“And now his watch is ended.”

Two of the men who had arrived with Edd echoed Jon’s words.

“We found him and few others fleeing Castle Black on our way here,” said one of the non-Night’s Watchmen.

“Beric?”

Jon had not recognized the Lord of Blackhaven but as he looked closer he saw the missing eye and scarred face. “Beric, where’s Tormund?”

“On his way here I hope. I had thought he’d beat us to the castle after we parted. We left him and seven others from Last Hearth about a half day’s ride from here. They sent us ahead to warn you . . . the dead are coming. They will be here in two days at most.”

“Two days?” Jon whispered, his mind racing. _We need more time_.

Jon looked back over his shoulder at Daenerys but her visage remained inscrutable.

“Aye,” Beric answered. “After he broke us as Eastwatch, we fled down the Wall’s causeway to Castle Black but the dead had already arrived. The Watch fought bravely but it was a slaughter. These men are all that are left.”

 _The Night’s Watch is gone_ , Jon thought. _Gone_.

“Get these men to the infirmary. Have Maester Wolkan tend to them,” Jon ordered. Several Stark men stepped forward and assisted Edd and the other Night’s Watchmen toward the Winterfell infirmary. “Take the Lord Commander’s body to the litch yard near the First Keep and burn it.”

“Jon,” Beric said stepping in close, “the dead. There’s not just a dragon under the Night King’s sway. Giants. Mammoths. Direwolves. Spiders the size of hounds. All the stories wet nurses told while we were young and sucking at the tit have come to life. The Night King’s army has only grown since we fought him at the lake. It is as we feared—when men die they become meat for his army.”

“What happened at Eastwatch, Beric? What really happened?” Jon asked grabbing the Lightning Lord’s arm. “How did the they breach the Wall?”

Beric grimaced, hanging his head in shame.

“We were not prepared for the dragon. In hindsight we all should have known that after our rescue at the lake the Night King would seize the chance to claim one if he had the power to do so. His army approached and we were ready to rain fire down upon them from atop the Wall. We thought its magic would protect us against whatever salvos the undead made. But then the dragon . . . came hard and fast. The wildlings fled and then it unleashed its flames. The very Wall itself trembled under the blast and all thought of defense fled from thought.”

“Flames?” Daenerys interjected, having overheard Beric’s words. “Its fire has gone. We all saw it fall from the sky. Yet, my dragon still breathes fire?”

Beric shook his head.

“I don’t know, your Grace,” he answered. “I don’t know what it was but it is not living fire—the Lord of Light’s flame. It is . . . something else. Death incarnate, perhaps. Whatever it is, the dragon was able to shatter the Wall and break its magical wards. The battle was lost before it even began.”

“The dragon shattered the Wall,” Jon repeated in disbelief. “If it can do that to the Wall then there is no telling what havoc it will wreak on Winterfell.”

Beric shuddered slightly. “Aye. As I said we fled down the causeway toward Greenguard and The Torches. The dead tracked our movements on the ground below, mirroring our every move atop the Wall. If we stopped, they stopped. If we moved, they moved.” Beric hesitated for a moment, lost in a harrowing memory of what happened since the Wall’s breach.

“There were a handful of Walkers with them keeping an eye on us as we fled. We thought that by heading west we could regroup and muster the Night’s Watch out of Castle Black to make our way to Winterfell. But as I said . . . the dead moved on Castle Black faster than we could make progress and descend from above. By the time we reached the castle the battle was already over and the dead had moved on. Why they left us, I cannot fathom. Thirty or so survived and travelled with us. Now . . . only a handful remain.”

“All right, Beric. We will need you now. Rest and come see me when you are ready,” Jon commanded.

“Aye, I will. These two,” he said pointing at two boys, “were at Last Hearth. You’ll want to speak with them.”

Jon turned his attention to the two boys who were huddled closely together. They were small boys—smaller than Jon had been when he was their ages. Their faces were covered in soot, blood, and mud, sweat, frozen as icicles clung to their hair. Jon could not recall ever seeing a more pitiful sight.

“You were at Last Hearth,” he asked, softening his voice in an effort to speak to them with tenderness. He squatted down so he could look them directly in the eyes as he talked with them.

“Yes, yer Grace,” they responded in unison.

“You don’t need to call me that. What are your names?” he asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daenerys stop the girl who had returned with the mulled ale for the men. He watched as she took two cups, filled them to the brim, and then giving them to each of the boys.

“Drink,” she urged the boys. “You’ll feel better.”

The two boys took full draughts of the ale, color returning to their pale faces.

“Mmmmmmm,” said one. “I’m Ronnal, yer Grace. Ronnal Umber.”

“Gerold Glenmore, your Grace, of Rillwater Crossing,” said the other.

“A Glenmore, eh? You come from good stock, lad. Tell me then, what of Last Hearth? What happened?”

Gerold looked sideways at Ronnal and hesitated, a look of horror passing across his face.

“Yer…yer Grace, the dead overwhelmed our defenses. A thick fog had rolled in and we could not see far in front of us let alone spot enemies approaching. At night the ground started to shake and the darkness thickened so much that it pierced to the bone. And then the dead were upon us, your grace. No warning. No chance to defend. Just death all around. Mors called the retreat and tried to lure some into the Keep, intending to do as planned and burn it to the ground. But a Walker killed him. I saw the Walker rip Mors’ head clean off and cast it aside.”

 _Failure_ , Jon thought to himself. _Failure and death. The plan for Last Hearth had utterly failed._

“The dragon, Gerold? Did you see the dragon?” he asked.

Gerold shook his head.

“No, your Grace. It was so dark and the fog . . . but we heard it above, screaming death’s arrival.”

Jon turned back to Beric, whose posture had slumped from exhaustion.

“Are there more men from Last Hearth with Tormund?”

“No. These two lads were all that we found on our way here.”

“Take these two with you to the infirmary, Beric,” he ordered. Beric bowed slightly and left with his arms around the two scared boys who had fought the dead at Last Hearth.

The wind had started up on the few minutes since Jon had walked into the courtyard. His heavy cloak whipped around him as the wind increased and he surveyed the castle. The activity he could see did not appear to be panicked or chaotic. Perhaps it was only Jon’s perception of the moment that had caused him to see things in a state of elevated reality. The Night King was coming and time had passed to prepare. The time had come to fight and die.

Jon turned to Daenerys, who was now flanked by Tyrion, Jorah, and Davos. Sansa and others lingered nearby. Jon and Daenerys’s eyes met—grey and violet—understanding passing quickly between them. She gave him a swift, curt nod, giving him permission to lead.

“Lord Beric informs me that the dead have broken the Night’s Watch and utterly defeated whatever resistance was made at Last Hearth. We have two days at most to finish our preparations but I daresay we had best be ready for he might arrive at any time atop his dragon,” Jon announced. A low murmur of astonishment rose in response.

“Two days?” Tyrion asked somewhat incredulously. “That seems rather quick timing.”

“Quick or not, two days at most,” Jon said. “His army does not stop to rest and it has no supply lines to maintain. We must be ready at all times and all our forces must be placed on the highest of alert. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught unawares.”

“We have done what we could to secure the castle and the surroundin’s,” Davos observed. “Can’t say that we ‘aven’t put together our best defense.”

“Aye, that we have,” Jorah responded. “And we will never be fully ready for a foe such as this. There is more we can do and more to be done.”

Jon smirked slightly and turned toward Jorah.

“Your father told me that a battle plan only lasts until you meet the enemy on the field. Then all plans are abandoned and it becomes a street fight.”

Jorah brushed back his hair that had fallen over his eyes.

“He taught me that lesson too, many times, when I was a lad on Bear Island,” he responded soberly. “And there’s truth in the Old Bear’s words, Jon. But this is a fight that we must control as much as possible. Otherwise the chaos will be more than we can withstand.”

Tyrion cleared his throat loudly as the group slowly contracted, coming closer together.

“Your Grace,” he said to Daenerys. “I recognize that the impending arrival of the dead is a pressing matter, and I am not diminishing it in any way, but at some point we will need to discuss what was in those scrolls you burned.”

“This is not the time for that discussion,” Daenerys swiftly responded. “There _are_ more pressing matters and if I had wanted to discuss the scrolls we would have done so before leaving the Great Hall.”

“As I said, I realize that,” Tyrion responded, the cadence of his speech quickening. “An existential crisis surely takes precedence over what appeared to have been scrolls approximately twenty years old, brought from Dorne mind you, that were sealed with the sigils of two northern houses, one of Dorne’s most ancient houses, and the Faith.” Tyrion’s eyes darted up to look at Jon. He averted his gaze quickly, however.

Jon watched as Daenerys’s lips pressed tightly together as she suppressed what was undoubtedly a biting comment at Tyrion’s persistence.

“There may be a time for us to discuss those specific peculiarities, Lord Tyrion, but our focus needs to remain on the defense of the North and the realm. My realm, if you recall. And it is the same one you swore to assist me to reclaim and defend.”

Jon watched Tyrion struggle against his impulse to push back. One of the things that Jon had learned over the past several months was that Tyrion was, to his surprise, an effective advisor and check on Daenerys. Her impulsive and occasionally rash nature had drawn him to her. He could tell that Tyrion constantly did his utmost to temper her.

“Very well, your Grace,” he finally said, momentarily defeated.

A smile crept at the edges of Jon’s mouth mouth. _Blood of the dragon_ , were the only words that came to his mind.

“Jon,” Sansa said to her cousin. “Jon, you should speak with Bran about this. He needs to know.”

Jon nodded silently. His sister was right as she had so often been since their reunion at Castle Black so many months ago. She had been right about fighting the Boltons and reclaiming the North. She had been right about how to fight Ramsay Bolton. She had been right about seeking out northern alliances. She had been right about the danger of leaving the north when he went south to Dragonstone.

“Aye, I know.”

Jon and Daenerys silently led the group back toward the Great Hall. A slight snowfall had commenced once more from the grey overcast sky. As he neared the smithy, Jon could hear the snow sizzle as it landed on the iron pipes jutting out of the smithy’s room.

 _Forge faster. Forge harder. Forge more_ , he thought to himself.

He heard laughter coming from the far end of the courtyard where targets had been set up for the northern children to practice their archery skills. Most of the common, northern children had some sort of martial training from a young age—especially those who resided near some of the larger castles and holdfasts dotted across the northern landscape. The larger houses, however, like House Stark and House Manderly would have their daughters learn more feminine pursuits rather than military ones. Jon glanced over his shoulder toward the sound of laughter but could see no one through the falling snow. He thought perhaps he had imagined it.

Jon could hear the fallen snow melt as he passed the smithy The hall’s doors had closed behind them when they had exited toward the courtyard. When Jon reentered the hall, however, he did not find it empty; instead, a man who appeared to be nothing but a common sellsword sat lazily on the dais. Jon might not have recognized him but for the blonde locks of hair atop the man’s head.

Jon’s heart leapt into his throat and pounded like a drum marching men to war. His whole body tensed at seeing the lone Lannister warrior. A sudden urge to draw Longclaw and attack the Lannister flashed through his mind, his hand unwittingly dropping to the sword’s hilt. Rage filled him—rage and sorrow for Ned, Robb, Jory, and all the others.

Yet as suddenly as the rage had charged through him it vanished.

_He’s honoring his oath. He’s come to fight the dead. He is here._

“Ser Jaime,” Jon said striding forward. “Thank you for honoring your house’s pledge to fight with us.” Jon extended his hand toward the Kingslayer. Jaime stood and raised his eyebrows and offered Jon a wry smile, raising his gold hand and shaking it in the air.

“I’d take your hand, Lord Snow, but it seems that mine has already been taken.”

Jon laughed quietly at Jaime’s gesture.

“I swore a vow to fight the dead. I intend to honor that vow at the very least.” Jaime turned to Daenerys, “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace? Truly, Ser Jaime?” Daenerys answered coolly. “I had thought to see you again along with thousands of the bold fighting men of the Reach and Westerlands. Well, those who remained after the events of the Blackwater Rush.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Alas, your sister sends just you.”

“Cersei didn’t send me. She almost killed me to prevent me from riding north,” Jaime protested.

“So, she completely betrayed our pact at the Dragonpit. I had thought that she had only betrayed the spirit of the agreement rather than its spirit and letter. Perhaps you had been the only banner she could call and so she sent you here to die with the rest of us.” Daenerys scoffed. “Her actions will be accounted for. Regardless, you are here, aren’t you, Ser Jaime? We will see how much this particular vow that you made actually means to you.”

Jon stepped onto the dais and raised his arms to quiet those who were gathered.

“We have but two days, at most, until we fight the dead. Dragonglass and fire are all we know of that kills them. Ordinary steel only delays them and cannot stand against the weapons wielded by the walkers. Do not engage one if you lack the proper weapon. Dragonglass or valyrian steel kills the walkers. When possible, go for the walkers. Killing them will cause some of the wights to fall. Use fire when possible; dragonglass when necessary.”

“And what, my lord, is the plan? Seeing as how I just arrived from the south I have not yet learned what preparations have been made for our defense,” Jaime Lannister asked, stepping forward. “Your words at the Dragonpit gave me the impression that you know how to fight and beat these things. I hope I was not mistaken.”

Jon smiled knowingly to himself. He cast his eyes about the room looking at each person who stood waiting for his response.

“Aye, Ser Jaime. I know how to fight them. I know how to kill them. I also know how to lose to them. We all know how to do that.”

Jon paced back and forth on the dais, carefully considering his next words.

“The plan is simple—we must keep our forces concentrated around Winterfell. If our armies are spread too thin on the battlefield we’ll be cut to ribbons. Thanks to Sansa, the northerners have dug a series of trenches to the northwest and east of Winterfell. Those trenches are lined with pitch and surrounded by stockades tipped with dragonglass. The trenches will, we hope, force the dead to attack the castle. Ideally, their numbers will count for less than what they would otherwise on an open field.”

“The Queen’s dothraki riders constitute the majority of our forces and will form the center column of our position. Ser Jorah being one of the few who understands Dothraki will coordinate them with our other forces. The dothraki will be flanked to the east by the Unsullied, and to the west by the northerners, including the free folk, reinforced by the crannogmen. Lords Glover, Hornwood, and Reed will command the northern forces. Dim Dalba and Tormund, if he survives, will lead the free folk. The Knights of the Vale stand as reserves and will reinforce as needed. Queen Daenerys and her dragons will patrol the perimeter and keep the dead hemmed within the confines we have set and, if necessary, attempt to keep the Night King’s dragon from directly attacking Winterfell.”

A low murmur of agreement rose within the group. Lord Glover quietly uttered the phrase “King in the North” and the other northerners in the room echoed his words. Jon raised his arms again for silence.

“At Hardhome the dead caught the free folk and the Night’s Watch unawares. The Night King brought a storm of snow and ice with him and slaughtered nearly everyone, kith and kin.” Jon paused briefly, reliving the night mare of Hardhome in his mind’s eye. “I watched as the Night King raised his arms, summoning those who died to join his army. If you retreat, burn the fallen lest they become meat for his army. If, at the last moment, we are lost, burn the castle—burn everything—burn it all.”

Jon saw Jaime Lannister recoil slightly at his last words but he did not have time to follow up or address it further. He saw Sam and Bran entering the hall.

“Jon,” Bran called from the corner where he had sat with Sam nearby. “I require a place to survey and observe the battle.”

Jon hesitated to respond as Sam wheeled Bran to a stop just before the dais.

“Bran, I . . .”

“It is not a request. I require it. I must be able to fight him . . . in my own way,” he responded.

Jon looked at Daenerys and then to Sansa. Both of them assented with shakes of their heads. Jon grimaced and sighed heavily.

“All right then, Bran, we will find a place for you to observe the battle. But I won’t send you there alone. The fight will be dangerous and unpredictable,” Jon responded. “Do you have a place in mind?”

“Indeed, I do. The top of the First Keep.”

“The First Keep?” Jon asked, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Can you even get to the top of that place? It hasn’t been used for decades.”

“There is a narrow ladder that leads into the uppermost rooms of the tower. Ser Jaime knows where it is,” Bran said turning his gaze toward Jaime Lannister but did not let his gaze linger on the knight who shifted uneasily. “The tower is where I fell and where I was reborn. I shall fight him there.”

“I’ll go with him,” Sam offered. “I can protect him with my family’s valyrian sword, Heartsbane.”

“Sam . . .” Jon started skepticism lacing his voice.

“I will go with him too, Jon,” Sansa interjected. “Brienne will accompany us and help Bran to the top.”

“My lady,” Brienne said from behind Sansa acknowledging her command.

“And you, Sandor Clegane, would you aid me atop the First Keep?” Bran asked turning his attention to the youngest Clegane brother, who was leaning against the back wall gnawing on a chicken leg.

“Me? Fuck no,” Clegane muttered roughly. “But I will carry the crippled little lord to the top of the tower if needs be before returning to the ground where I can kill some of those dusty, undead cunts. Tarly, you said you have a valyrian blade?”

“Ye-yes,” Sam answered. Jon heard the earnestness that had filled Sam’s prior words slowly drain from his voice and a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He sensed what Sandor Clegane was about to ask of Sam and though Jon innately agreed with the Hound, his heart beat rose slightly as he anticipated what was to come.

“And do you know how to use it for more than cutting a ham?” Clegane asked standing to his full height and towering over everyone else in the room.

“I . . . I might not be a skilled swordsman,” Sam stammered. “But I have killed a white walker.”

“Sam, I think what Clegane is getting at is whether you’d be willing to allow someone else with more, let’s say, martial ability use the sword,” Jon said as thoughtfully as possible. He hoped to save his friend from a measure of unnecessary embarrassment. “It is a great sword, is it not?”

A look for confusion flashed across Sam’s face. His eyes darted around the room rapidly.

“A great sword?” Sam asked.

“Aye. A two hander?” Jon added.

“Uh, well yes, it is quite a large sword.”

Jon gave Sam a sympathetic smile. For all of his interest in learning and knowledge, Sam’s lack of fluency in martial arts and tactics did not cease to amaze Jon.

“Let me put it to its purpose against the dead,” Clegane growled.

“All . . .all right then,” Samwell hesitantly agreed. Clegane clapped Sam hard on the shoulder. Sam winced at the blow.

“Good lad.”

“And what of Starfall, your Grace?” All heads in the room turned toward the speaker, Lady Allyria. “Where shall the Knights of Starfall serve to protect the living?”

“I hadn’t . . .” Jon started.

“Pardon, my lord. I was speaking to her Grace, Queen Daenerys.”

Jon bowed his head, embarrassed slightly, at his error. He felt Daenerys touch his hand slightly in reassurance.

‘Lord Snow is the Warden of the North and has been charged by me with commanding the defense of the North from the impending threat. Starfall shall take its commands from him,” Daenerys said responding to Allyria’s question.

“Thank you, your Grace," Jon said. "The Knights of Starfall will protect the Queen along with her personal guard until the time comes for her and her dragons to take flight and join the battle. At that point, defend the castle and those who require it. The time has come for us to stand and defend the living. If we fall then all of Westeros falls to the Night King. Life is what we. . .”

Jon never finished his sentence. He had been interrupted by three short horn blasts coming from the Winterfell towers.


End file.
